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UNIVERSITY 
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ANGELES 


POEMS. 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E 


AITD 


OTHER    POEMS 


BY  L. 


NEW  YORK: 

Car  let  on,  Publisher,  130  Grand  St. 

(LATE  RUDD  &  CARLETON.) 
MDCCCLXII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  18G2,  by 

G.  W.  CARLETON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


T5 


To  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW,  ESQ. 

EVEN  as  a  child  with  tender  reverence  brings 

From  its  small  store  some  treasured  offerings, 

Which,  trifles  though  they  be,  yet  serve  to  prove 

To  those  more  wise  its  confidence  and  love, 

So  at  thy  feet,  0  Bard  of  high  renown, 

I  trusting  lay  my  humble  offering  down, 

Not  as  all  worthy  thus  to  boldly  claim 

The  well -prized  favor  of  thy  glance  —  Thy  fame 

Checks  the  fond  hope  my  untaught  lips  would  frame; 

Yet  nature  tells  me  he  who  tunes  his  lyre 

So  oft  in  woman's  praise;  who  wakes  such  fire 

Of  pure  and  tender  love  as  Preciosa  owns; 

Who  walks  unwearied  through  life's  changeful  zones 

Still  cheered  and  guided  by  the  flame  divine 

That  lures  the  hopeful,  sad  Evangeline; 

Who,  waiving  custom's  laws,  makes  nature  speak 

On  fair  Priscilla's  lip  and  changing  cheek; 

Who,  more  than  all,  paints  with  a  master's  hand 

The  dark-browed  children  of  our  western  land, 

Who  moves  all  hearts,  as  Hiawatha's  moved, 

To  the  true,  tender  woman  whom  he  loved, 

Then  throws  o'er  all  the  warrior's  grief  and  gloom, 


764047 


viii  CONTEXTS. 

NIGHT  STORMS 125 

THOU  COMEST  TO  ME 1-8 

AX  APRIL  DAY 130 

MY  MORXING  DREAM 133 

THE  BLUEBIRD'S  SONG !•>•> 

ROSES  BLOOM         ......  137 

THE  FIXE 139 

"  HATH  NOT  THY  ROSE  A  CANKER  ?  "                     .  141 

APRIL  AND  MAY 143 

A  SONG  FOR  MAY 145 

OUR  WILD  WOOD  HOME 147 

LONG  AGO 149 

MY  PRISONED  BIRD             150 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL 152 

MY  BOYHOOD'S  LOVE 155 

"  LIFE  is  REAL" 157 

THE  SPIRIT'S  WARNING     .         .        .        .        .159 

MY  HEART  GROWS  SAD  FOR  THEE           .        .  103 

POESY '     .            .  100 

MARCH                 108 

A  SPRING  SONG              .           .'         .•         .•         .    ^      .  171 

HOEIXG  CORN              .            .            .            .            .            .  172 

KING  AND  QUEEN 175 

SIGNS  OF  SPRING                 /  177 

THE  SXOW             .            .           .  '                     .            .            .  182 

TIIK  CLOSING  YEAR 184 

A  SONG  FOR  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  .  .  .187 

ERINNA  CHAINED  TO  THE  DISTAFF  190 


S YBELLE 


SYBELLE. 


PART  I. 

Ix  FOREST  depths  a  rose  is  springing, 
In  thickets  lone  a  thrush  is  singing, 
A  traveler  listens  to  the  song, 
Kisses  the  rose,  and  wonders  long 
That  such  sweet  bloom  and  minstrelsy 
In  lonely  woodland  wilds  should  be. 
Softly  he  kneels,  and  soft  has  pressed 
The  wild  rose  to  his  lips,  his  breast, 
And  smiled  to  see  the  wondrous  glow 
His  kisses  on  the  flower  bestow. 
He  speaks  some  tender  passing  word — 
The  thrush  has  in  the  thicket  heard  ; 
Its  plaintive,  spring-born  lays  are  stilled, 
By  some  strange  power  its  breast  is  thrilled, 
And  lo  !  the  wildwood  depths  along, 
Rolls  the  full  summer  tide  of  song. 
O,  will  the  charmed  wanderer  stay, 
To  bless  the  rose,  inspire  the  lay, 
Through  all  life's  blissful  summer  day, 
But  asking  that  when  life  has  fled, 


12  SYBELLE. 

Those  blushing  leaves  be  o'er  him  shed, 
And  that  the  parting  song  may  bear 
His  rapt  soul  to  Elysium  fair? 
Or  will  one  passing  hour  like  this, 
Endow  him  wdth  such  wealth  of  bliss 
He  can  all  else  forego,  and  brave 
As  men  are,  climb  to  make  his  grave 
Among  the  glaciers  flashing  cold, 
And  rocks  o'erlying  gleams  of  gold, 
High  on  life's  barren  summit,  where 
Nor  song  nor  summer  roses  are  ? 
And  in  the  vale,  if  he  should  go, 
Would  still  the  rose  in  beauty  blow  ? 
Would  still  the  song  so  joyous  flow? 
Go  down  at  twilight  in  the  vale, 
And  ask  them  both  to  tell  the  tale, 
For  none  beside  the  flower  and  bird 
Those  words  and  kisses  felt  or  heard. 

The  summer  eve  is  hushed  and  calm, 
The  airs  of  June  are  breathing  balm 
From  wild  flowers  waiting  for  the  dew ; 
The  green  leaves  take  a  darker  hue, 
Save  where  the  slanting  sunset  ray 
Yet  lingers  on  each  westering  spray, 
Till  rose-bloom  tinged  with  blended  gold, 
Seems  trembling  in  each  emerald  fold. 
As  some  fond  lover  seeks  to  grasp 
Her  hand  whose  form  he  may  not  clasp, 
Caress  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Glad  to  prolong  the  parting  pain, 
Dreading  the  last  reluctant  kiss 


SYBELLE.  13 

That  seals  at  once  his  doom  and  bliss  — 

So  fond,  so  lingeringly  the  light 

Plays  round  the  greenwood  leaves  to-night, 

So  warmly  passionate  the  glow 

That  trembles  through  the  branches  low, 

And  falls  on  every  quivering  leaf — 

A  passing  glory,  bright  as  brief. 

.-» 

By  soft,  low  banks  of  green  caressed, 
The  valley  stream  smiles  in  its  rest ; 
Such  murmuring  rest,  such  dimpling  gleams 
Of  smiles  as  bless  a  maiden's  dreams, 
When  arrowy  shafts  of  love-light  part 
The  shades  of  doubt  that  cloud  her  heart, 
As  slanting  rays  of  sunlight  quiver 
Through  all  the  trees  that  shade  the  river, 
And  fall,  so  blessing  and  so  blest, 
Upon  its  trembling,  happy  breast. 

Sybelle,  with  face  as  fair  and  calm 
As  this  sweet  hour  of  bloom  and  balm, 
But  form  as  still,  and  seeming  cold, 
As  though  she  were  not  mortal  mold, 
Waits  by  the  river's  side  to-night : 
Around  her  falls  the  golden  light ; 
Now  on  the  green  turf  where  she  stands, 
Now  on  her  closely  folded  hands 
The  glory  rests ;  unconscious  still, 
The  slight  form  gives  no  answering  thrill, 
Though  upward  blushing  from  her  lips 
The  shade  that  marks  the  day's  eclipse, 
Goes  deepening,  warming  in  its  hue, 


14  SYBELLE. 

Above  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  of  blue, 
Above  her  forehead  calm  and  fair, 
Till  like  a  halo  round  her  hair 
It  flushes,  pales,  then  fades  in  air. 

What  wondrous  spell,  what  wizard  glance 
II. is  bound  her  in  that  dreamy  trance? 
'  Tis  not  indifference,  not  surprise, 
That  fixes  thus  her  steady  eyes 
With  that  strange  look  of  vacancy, 
That  seeing  all  seems  naught  to  see. 
All  sights  and  sounds  of  beauty  here, 
That  meet  her  eye  or  charm  her  ear, 
Have  to  each  sense  familiar  grown 
As  though  her  life  were  nature's  own, 
And  she  a  leaf,  a  flower,  a  bird, 
By  all  their  sweet  emotions  stirred, 
Bloomed  when  they  bloomed,  sung  when  they  sung, 
Or  in  enchanted  silence  hung, 
While  summer  sunlight  round  her  played, 
And  summer  winds  their  music  made. 
These  are  the  haunts,  where,  when  a  child, 
She  found  such  inspiration  wild 
In  all  surrounding  sympathies, 
The  changeful  stream,  the  murmuring  trees, 
The  blossoms  on  the  hillside  dying, 
Or  tempests  through  the  dark  sky  flying, 
As  wakened  in  her  youthful  breast 
Ambition's  dreams,  its  strange  unrest. 
Vague  dreams  they  were,  for  that  young  face, 
That  form  so  full  of  girlish  grace, 
The  pure  soul  looking  wistful  through 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  15 

Those  deep  and  tender  eyes  of  blue, 

Knew  naught  of  fame  save  that  the  word 

On  many  a  careless  tongue  was  heard ; 

And  naught  of  life,  unless  it  meant 

Some  change  of  outward  element, 

Such  as  the  varying  seasons  made 

When  round  her  childish  years  they  played, 

When  winter  melting  into  spring 

Would  to  her  path  fresh  roses  bring, 

And  summer's  deepening  blooms  bestow 

On  cheek  and  lip  a  warmer  glow, 

Or   autumns  softly  shadow  down 

Their  brown  leaves  on  her  tresses  brown. 

Beloved  and  loving,  her  young  years 

Scarce  found  a  place  for  grief  or  tears. 

Yet,  was  the  soul  within  content 

That  thus  the  summers  came  and  went, 

And  found  and  left  her  like  the  flowers 

That  blossomed  in  her  wildwood  bowers, 

Only  a  rose,  or  if  a  bird, 

Still  one  whose  songs  were  all  unheard  ?       t 

Content !      Yes,  as  the  lightnings  are 
That  play  around  yon  cloudy  bar 
Low  lying  in  the  southern  skies, 
So  faintly  tinged  with  sunset  dyes. 
Sybelle  is  gazing  on  it  now, 
A  kindred  light  burns  on  her  brow, 
A  bright  flush  tints  her  cheek  of  snow : 
"  I  see  it  all,"  she  murmurs  low ; 
"  I  am  the  cloud ;  these  wild  desires 
For  name  and  fame,  are  lightning  fires, 


16  SYBELLE. 

That  burn  and  flash,  and  flash  and  burn, 

And  on  themselves  in  -vengeance  turn, 

That  in  their  isolation  driven 

They  touch  not  earth,  they  reach  not  heaven. 

God's  pity  for  the  helpless  cloud ! 

It  fails  and  fades,  a  cold  gray  shroud, 

From  whose  thin  folds  no  blessed  rain 

Shall  ever  reach  the  thirsty  plain. 

With  lightnings  breathing  quick  and  warm 

Through  all  its  elements  of  storm, 

Alone,  it  faints,  it  fades  from  sight, 

In  silence  in  the  silent  night. 

It  may  be  well.    It  may  be,  too,' 

That  Raimond's  cruel  words  were  true ; 

That  all  the  hopes  within  me  born, 

Like  gossamers  of  summer  morn, 

"With  flaunting  breadth  of  jewelled  rim, 

"Would  in  the  world's  broad  light  grow  dim, 

And  long  ere  noon  their  death  doom  meet, 

From  eager  hands  and  trampling  feet 

Intent  but  on  the  ripened  wheat. 

The  world,  he  says,  has  little  need 

Of  blossoms  culled  from  bank  and  mead ; 

Out  of  its  young  romancings  grown, 

Aside  its  de\v-sprent  sandals  thrown, 

It  storms  abroad  in  active  strife, 

Full  of  such  earnestness  of  life, 

That  only  high,  heart  moving  songs, 

Of  love,  and  truth,  and  clashing  wrongs 

And  rights,  its  stern,  strong  heart  can  move. 

O,  what  is  life  ?  and  what  is  love  ? 

What  is  the  world  ?  and  what  am  I  ? 


SYBELLE.  If 

Too  feeble  from  this  thrall  to  fly, 
Too  strong  to  be  content  and  tame, 
Must  I  still,  like  yon  lightning  flame, 
Turn  on  myself?     O  passing  breeze, 
Bring  down  some  answer  from  the  trees ! 
O  sweet  June  roses,  buds  that  shiver 
In  these  light  winds,  beloved  river, 
And  tender  stems  of  grass  that  quiver 
Where  e'er  I  tread !     O  forest  birds 
That  sing  to  me  in  no  vain  words ! 

0  many  fashioned  poet  leaves, 

Along  whose  lines  the  night  wind  weaves 

Sublimest  harmonies !     O  light 

Of  this  sweet  eve !     O  holy  night, 

That  praiseth  God  with  starry  speech  ! 

Have  I  learned  so  much  that  ye  teach, 

Lived  with,  loved,  worshiped  ye  so  long, 

That  my  soul  seems  yourselves  in  song, 

Yet  knows  not  life,  nor  love,  nor  truth, 

Such  as  give  song  immortal  youth, 

And  to  all  time  a  deathless  name 

Linked  with  high  thoughts,  themselves  their  fame  ? 

1  thought  I  lived;  he  calls  it  dreaming: 
Here  then  forever  ends  this  seeming. 

I  waken  now.     Waft  back,  O  breeze, 
Farewells  to  blossoms,  birds  and  trees ; 
Life  needs  them  not,  and  I  no  more 
Bend  in  sweet  worship  as  before, 
At  your  pure  altars.     I  must  learn 
What  life  is ;  with  high  purpose  turn 
To  other  teachers,  even  to  him 
At  whose  light  words  my  hopes  grew  dim. 


18 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E. 


The  hand  that  laid  these  idols  low, 
Shall  others  in  their  place  bestow. 
The  lip  tli  at  smiled  its  pitying  praise, 
And  called  ray  offerings  girlish  lays, 
Pretty  and  tender,  yet  shall  give 
The  homage  that  to  win  I  live ! 
O  he  would  have  a  lightning  flash 
In  every  word,  a  thunder  crash 
In  every  line,  and  tempests  hurled 
Through  each  fair  page  to  please  the  world  ! 
Well,  will  he  but  the  lesson  teach, 
My  raind  can  grasp  all  his  can  reach  : 
Come,"  life ! " 

Lo,  echoing  to  the  word, 
Along  the  valley  path  is  heard 
A  firm,  light  step.     It  sounds  so  near, 
The  maiden  starts  as  if  in  fear. 

«  Sybelle ! " 

The  voice  was  soft  and  low, 
Paled  on  her  cheek  the  angry  glow  , 
And  such  a  bright  and  flitting  smile 
As  sunset  gave  the  leaves  the  while, 
Touched  the  red  lips,  but  quickly  died, 
And  left  the  place  to  scornful  pride. 
She  scorned  herself  that  self-betrayed 
So  bare  her  inmost  soul  was  laid 
Even  to  the  flowers ;  and  what  if  he, 
Half  feared,  half  reverenced,  could  it  be 
That  Raimond,  idly  dreaming  near, 
Had  chanced  her  wild,  strange  words  to  hear  ? 


SY  BELLE.  19 

And  if  he  had,  she  thought,  was  pride 
E'er  yet  in  woman's  need  denied  ? 
Alas,  it  sadly  fails  her  now ; 
The  blood  flies  burning  to  her  brow, 
She  speaks  his  name,  but  vainly  tries 
To  raise  to  his  her  drooping  eyes, 
Then  murmurs,  less  in  pride  than  guilt, 
"  Reproach  and  censure  if  thou  wilt." 

He  read  her  speaking  face  too  well. 
He  took  her  hand  : 

"  Fair  child,  Sybelle, 
"No  censure,  no  reproachful  word 
For  you  can  from  my  lips  be  heard, 
Even  might  I  venture  now  to  guess 
What  caused  this  passionate  distress. 
Did  some  strange  vision  come  to  you  ? 
I  have  been  watching  visions  too. 
See  where  I  sat,  far  up  between 
The  trees  that  skirt  the  hillside  green ; 
A  soft,  low,  mossy  mound  is  there, 
Fringed  round  with  ferns  and  blossoms  fair, 
And  fitter  for  a  fairy's  throne 
Than  for  these  lengthened  limbs  I  own. 
Yet  what  I  could  of  kingly  grace 
I  summoned  to  adorn  the  place, 
And  sat,  a  king  o'er  such  a  land 
As  ne'er  was  won  by  warrior  brand. 
Long  gazing  at  the  golden  fall 
Of  glory  down  heaven's  western  wall, 
I  saw,  or  fancied  that  I  saw, 
An  ano;el  hand  the  curtain  draw : 


20  SYBELLE. 

An  angel  form  came  softly  through ; 
It  did  not  fly,  for  much  like  you, 
N"o  wings  upon  its  shoulders  grew ! 
Down  toward  a  bright,  celestial  stream 
It  moved,  as  you  move  when  you  dream, 
In  maiden  pride,  with  charm  so  sweet 
As  makes  all  other  charms  complete, 
The  outward  motion  but  revealing 
The  inward  strength  and  grace  of  feeling. 
So  moved  the  angel,  and  her  eyes 
Were  looking  toward  the  southern  skies ; 
A  soft,  blue  drapery  round  her  fell, 
Such  as  you  wear  to-night,  Sybelle. 
I  know  not  how,  perhaps  I  dreamed, 
But  as  I  gazed,  the  vision  seemed 
Most  like  to  you ;  and  then  I  thought, 
By  some  romantic  fancy  caught, 
Your  steps  in  dangerous  nearness  strayed 
To  where  the  treacherous  river  played ; 
And,  hero-like,  I  ran  to  save 
A  heroine  from  a  watery  grave ! 
Now,  though  the  race  be  all  in  vain, 
A  hero  should  some  guerdon  gain, 
Slight  though  it  be ;  then  come,  Sybelle, 
,  Soon  fall  the  dews  in  this  low  dell, 
While  fair  along  yon  wooded  height 
Yet  lies  the  sunset's  yellow  light. 
Come  where  the  winding  pathway  trails 
Its  truant  course  through  dainty  vales, 
Creeping  and  idling  as  it  goes, 
By  mossy  mounds  and  blooms  of  rose, 
Yet  upward  still  in  its  sweet  way, 


SYBELLE.  21 

From  twilights  dim  to  where  the  day 
Shines  clear  along  the  broad  highway. 
Idling  like  it  shall  be  our  walk, 
And  pleasant  as  its  way  our  talk. 

"  I  wonder  much,  Sybelle,  of  late, 
What  moody  spirits  round  you  wait. 
Where  are  the  fluttering,  airy  things 
That  fanned  you  with  their  gauzy  wings; 
That  fed  you  nectar,  kept  you  singing, 
In  strains  like  fairy  music  ringing  — 
That  in  your  path  their  rose  leaves  flung, 
And  all  around  you  rainbows  hung? 
You  smile,  but  still  your  song,  or  lute, 
To  speak  in  poet  phrase,  is  mute ; 
Your  brow  looks  cramped  as  if  in  pain. 
What  goblin  scared  your  fairy  train, 
Swept  the  sweet  rose  leaves  from  your  path, 
And  stole  your  rainbows  in  his  wrath  ? 
I  would  I  knew  his  name,  Sybelle ; 
As  my  reward  I  pray  you  tell 
What  looks  he  like,  what  name  he  bears, 
And  where  and  how  he  spread  the  snares 
To  do  such  cruel,  ruthless  wrong, 
As  capture  all  your  birds  of  gong  I 
Sometimes  you  seem  all  lonely  straying 
To  mournful  marches  round  you  playing, 
And  then  all  strength  and  lire  and  scorn, 
As  though  you  were  a  comet  bom, 
And  cared  not  where  the  planets  went 
So  you  flashed  through  the  firmament. 
This  is  not  right,  this  is  not  life, 


22  SYBELLE. 

Come,  tell  me  why  this  mental  strife ; 

The  dreary  wilderness  disclose 

Where  you  are  suffering  thus ;  who  knows ! 

Your  life  a  Marah's  stream  may  be, 

The  prophet  I  to  find  the  tree 

Whose  healing  balm  can  sweetness  give, 

And  bid  the  wanderer  drink  and  live." 

Half  gay,  yet  tender  and  sincere, 
The  words  fell  soothing  on  her  ear, 
Though  well  through  all  that  playful  art 
She  feared  he  read  her  inmost  heai*t. 
Nor  could  his  tenderness  subdue 
The  rebel  fires  upflashing  through 
The  quick  eyes  lifted  to  his  own, 
And  trembling  in  her  eager  tone. 

>  "  0  might  I  only  find  the  stream, 
No  matter  what  its  bitterness, 
One  deep,  long  draught  would  sweeter  seem, 
Than  all  these  years  of  nothingness ! " ' 

"  Sybelle,  life's  stream  is  flowing  here, 
Even  at  your  feet,  so  calm  and  clear, 
So  pure  and  sweet ;  why  should  yoii  shrink 
From  its  unsullied  depths  to  drink? 
Why  turn  toAvard  stormier  waves  your  eye, 
While  these  untasted  pass  you  by  ?  " 

"  I  must  have  more  of  life,"  she  said ; 

"  I  cannot  breathe  in  this  dull  round ; 
Too  low  this  sky  droops  overhead, 
And  by  this  closo  horizon  bound 


SYBELLE.  23 

All  thought  grows  narrow,  cramped,  and  tame, 

Years  pass,  and  others  come  the  same ; 

Changeless  in  change  they  come  and  go, 

And  I  but  watch  their  ebb  and  flow. 

My  pale  pink  roses  bloom  and  fade, 

My  timid  violets  haunt  the  shade, 

My  sunflowers,  rimmed  and  rayed  with  gold, 

Stand  in  their  summer  worship  bold, 

With  just  as  much  of  life  as  I 

Beneath  this  spot  of  summer  sky." 

"  Yet  you  seemed  happy  when  I  came, 

Scarce  one  brief  year  ago,  Sybelle; 
Ah  !  now  I  guess  the  goblin's  name, 

Whose  presence  broke  your  fairy  spell. 
O,  he  shall  penance  do  more  dire 
Than  quenching  thirst  with  draughts  of  fire ! 
Was  it  my  hand  unstrung  your  lyre, 
Sybelle?" 

So  sudden  changed  his  tone, 

The  maiden  started  from  his  side ; 
His  searching  glances  met  her  own, 

And  heart  to  questioning  heart  replied. 
From  her  proud,  tender  eyes  the  ray 
Showed  that  ambition  held  its  sway 
O'er  every  passion  of  her  breast, 
Though  scarce  her  woman's  pride  repressed 
The  tears  at  what  those  eyes  confessed. 
That  instant,  mute  appeal  for  aid 
His  instant  answering  glance  repaid, 
From  calm,  clear  eyes  that  said  so  well,' 
You  cannot  ask  in  vain,  Sybelle. 


24  SYBELLE. 

Slow,  by  the  broad  highway  they  pass, 
Slow  o'er  the  clover-sprinkled'  grass, 
Down  the  long  lane  where  sunset  throws 
Its  last  ray  on  the  maple  rows, 
And  pause  where  climbing  roses  twine 
With  clusters  of  the  dark  musk  vine 
Around  the  cottage  porch,  and  fall 
A  robe  of  beauty  o'er  its  wall. 

Along  the  months  so  quickly  fled 
Have  Raimond's  hurried  glances  sped, 
Recalling  how,  when  first  a  guest 
In  this  green  valley  of  the  west, 
Brain- weary,  worn  with  toil  he  sought 
Forgetfulness  of  life,  .of  thought, 
And  calm  repose  to  cool  the  flame 
Of  fever  burning  through  his  frame, 
He  listened  to  Sybelle's  sweet  lay; 
How  pleased  he  read  the  artless  play 
Of  her  pure  thoughts,  caught  from  the  breeze, 
The  birds,  brooks,  flowers  and  forest  trees, 
Through  which  her  soul  breathed  all  the  grace 
That  nature  gave  her  form  and  face ; 
Recalling  too  the  proud  surprise 
That  flashed  light  from  her  happy  eyes, 
When  he  had  wondered  why  so  long 
Had  been  unheard  her  voice  of  song  ; 
And  then  the  still,  sad,  thoughtful  air 
With  which  she  nerved  herself  to  bear 
All  he  had  said  the  world  would  claim 
From  those  who  dared  to  ask  for  fame ; 
Her  changed  and  wayward  moods,  and  now, 
The  pleading  eyes,  the  sweet,  fair  brow, 


SYBELLE.  25 

That  looked  so  full  of  thought  and  pain, 
So  weary  of  its  troubled  brain ; 
The  strangely  passionate  words  that  sprung 
So  oft,  so  eager  from  her  tongue  — 
Yes,  that  brief,  backward  glance  revealed 
AlMhat  Sybelle's  proud  heart  concealed. 
He  saw  her  motives  high  and  pure  ; 
Though  doubtful  yet,  and  half  obscure 
Within  his  brain  the  question  seemed, 
Whether  she  waked  or  wildly  dreamed. 

"  I  almost  grieve,"  he  said,  "  Sybelle, 
That  e'er  my  darkening  shadow  fell, 
So  like  a  fated,  restless  wraith, 
Across  your  quiet  woodland  path. 
Not  for  myself —  no,  heaven  knows 
I  never  found  a  fairer  rose, 
Or  music  heard  more  pure  and  sweet 
Than  that  which  charms  this  lone  retreat, 
And  holds  me  here,  a  willing  guest; 
And  I,  Sybelle,  were  doubly  blest, 
If  aught  I  bring  of  worldly  store, 
Could  add  to  your  unstudied  lore 
One  worthy  element  or  thought 
By  that  strange  world's  experience  taught. 
I  would  atone,  if  thus  I  might, 

For  words  in  seeming  harshness  spoken, 
Though  never  yet  came  day's  fair  light 

Till  morning  clouds  and  dreams  were  broken. 
Still,  haply  might  the  woodland  stream 
Choose  in  its  twilight  haunts  to  dream, 
And  rather  watch  the  pale  stars  shine, 
2 


26  SYBELLE. 

Than  yield  to  guidance  rude  as  mine, 

To  lead  it  where,  with  burning  ray, 

The  sun  pours  down  the  perfect  day. 

You  sigh,  and  turn  your  weary  eyes, 

As  if  afar,  in  foreign  skies 

Alone  that  longed-for  day  might  be, 

With  years  between  its  light  and  thee. 

So  heard  I  sighing,  yester-morn, 

The  hillside  brook  beneath  the  thorn. 

Thou  knowest,  Sybelle,  what  blushing  ranks 

Of  roses  bend  along  its  banks  ; 

I  think  they  grow  so  very  fair 

For  love  of  her  who  placed  them  there. 

But  yester-morn  the  wind  shook  down 

The  hawthorn's  snowy  garland  crown ; 

And  the  meek  roses,  bending  lower, 

Ripe  to  the  crimson-tinted  core, 

Dropped  all  their  incense-breathing  bloom, 

Shrouding  the  stream  in  such  sweet  gloom, 

It  saw  no  heaven  above  it  shine, 

And  pined  as  now  I  heard  you  pine  — 

When  will  the  perfect  day  be  mine  ? 

Your  life  has  been  a  low  sweet  psalm, 

A  woodland  streamlet,  clear  and  calm, 

In  happy  tones  its  music  blending 

With  bloom  of  flowers  its  banks  o'erbending, 

Yet  ever  deeper,  stronger  growing 

From  wayside  fountains  to  it  flowing, 

And  pressing  like  a  human  soul 

Unconscious  toward  its  destined  goal, 

Seeking  by  ways  it  might  not  know 

The  sea  where  life's  deep  waters  flow. 


SYBELLE.  27 

"  "  You  sigh  for  fame.     O  forest  child, 
Though  o'er  your  birth  the  muses  smiled, 
Though  step  by  step  in  childhood's  hours 
They  led  you  through  enchanted  bowers, 
Though  round  your  maiden  brow  were  wreathed 
Their  crowns,  and  on  your  lips  were  breathed 
Their  inspirations  pure  and  high, 
All  these  are  still  but  prophecy, 
Not  deeds,  that  give  you  right  to  claim 
That  proud  reward  the  world  calls  fame. 
Ah,  little  cares  that  world  to  know 
What  time  your  wildwood  roses  blow ; 
How  dimpling  flows  your  forest  stream, 
Or  how  in  twilight  bowers  you  dream, 
Tranced  by  the  blended  harmonies 
Of  summer  leaves  and  sunset  skies. 
It  would  have  thoughts  born  of  the  strife, 
The  conflicts  of  your  hidden  life, 
Great  truths  from  nature,  and,  as  meet 
From  woman's  hand,  inwoven  sweet 
With  tender  human  sympathies  — 
Love,  grief,  and  joy;  such  themes  as  these 
Reach  its  great  heart,  if  from  your  own 
Springs  the  key  note,  the  moving  tone, 
The  spark  magnetic  that  alone 
Touches  all  natures,  and  can  thrill 
The  world  obedient  to  one  will. 
O  never  poet's  subtlest  art 

Could  weave  you  laurels  from  the  air; 
Go  down  into  your  woman's  heart, 

And  find  your  own  crown  jewels  there ! 
Turn  from  the  flowery  ^  dim  ideal, 


28  SYBELLE. 

And  live  and  sing  the  present  real. 

Your  own  still  life  upon  you  palls  — 

Look  out  beyond  your  garden  walls ; 

Xo  close  horizon's  bound  is  there, 

Xor  low-drooped  skies  nor  stagnant  air. 

The  West !  to  me  the  very  name 

Sends  blood  new  bounding  through  the  frame. 

In  wilds  like  these,  if  e'er  on  earth,- 

Might  giants  claim  immortal  birth. 

True  life  is  here,  and  brave  and  strong, 

Is  working  out  a  nation's  song, 

As  foot  by  foot  it  marks  the  lines 

From  tropic  plains  to  arctic  pines, 

And  stanza  after  stanza  sweeps 

From  prairie  bounds  to  mountain  steeps, 

The  golden  chorus  ringing  o'er 

The  broad,  fair  land  from  shore  to  shore. 

Thought  grows  not  tame  in  life  like  this. 

Nor  were  those  years  of  nothingness 

That  round  your  young,  pure  being  threw 

Their  bloom  and  shine,  and  sweet  life  dew ; 

Their  springtime  sunlights  soft  and  dear, 

Their  autumn  shadows  chill  and  drear, 

The  splendors  of  their  summer  bloom, 

Their  winter  nights  of  storm  and  gloom, 

All  were  to  you  as  suns,  and  showers, 

And  winds,  and  dews  are  to  your  flowers  ; 

All  molding  you  as  they  are  molded, 

"When  in  the  silent  seed  enfolded, 

In  perfect  form  embalmed  they  lie, 

A  slow  unfolding  mystery. 

Xor  breath  of  wind,  nor  fall  of  rain, 

Xor  dews  nor  sunlit  skies  were  vain. 


SYBELLE.  29 

"  Still  in  your  eager,  asking  eyes 
And  on  your  lip  unanswered  lies 
Your  heart's  great  question.     Ah,  Sybelle, 
Words  are  of  little  worth  to  tell 
What  life  is.     Life  alone  can  give 
Yoifr  answer  - —  such  as  they  must  live 
Who  dare  its  doubtful  strife  to  meet 

Matched  hand  to  hand  and  soul  to  soul, 
Nor  dream  of  rest?  nor  know  defeat 

Though  baffled  oft ;  but  to  the  goal 
For  gain  or  fame,  for  good  or  ill, 
Wage  the  stern  war  with  tireless  will ; 
Some  grasping  pleasure  as  they  go, 
But  crowning  victory  with  their  woe  ; 
Some  worn  and  weary,  conquering  all, 
And  some  the  strongest,  first  to  fall. 
It  is  of  that  fierce  warring  world, 
Of  life  in  seeming  chaos  hurled, 
Of  mind  to  clashing  mind  opposed, 
Of  fates  in  life-long  contest  closed, 
Of  thought  and  passion,  soul  and  sense  — 
The  realm  of  mind's  omnipotence, 
That  you  are  thirsting  thus  to  know ; 
I  read  it  in  your  cheek's  bright  glow, 
I  see  your  small  hand  closer  clasped 
As  if  some  weapon  it  had  grasped, 
And  dark  flames  kindling  in  your  eyes 
Uplifted  toward  the  twilight  skies, 
Where  neither  sky  nor  stars  you  see, 
But  far  and  dim,  like  prophecy, 
That  distant  world  whose  nmrmur  comes 
To  you  like  beat  of  rallying  drums 


30  S  Y  B  E  L  L  K. 

• 

To  armed  and  eager  ranks,  who  wait 
The  signal  note  to  seize  their  fate. 

"  Sybelle,  you  know  how  worn  and  pale, 
And  Aveary,  to  your  quiet  vale 
For  rest  I  came  ;  how  like  a  child 
I  wandered  in  these  forests  wild, 
Pleased  as  a  child  whole  summer  days 
To  drown  in  that  sweet,  dreamy  haze, 
Made  up  of  blossom-scents  and  song 
Of  birds  and  bees  and  sounds  that  throng 
All  fresh  green  summer  woods  ;  and  how 
"When  brown  nuts  ripened  on  the  bough, 
Boy-like  I  grew  with  growing  health, 
And  reveled  in  the  autumn  wealth 
Of  forest  fruits  and  painted  leaves  ; 

Or  helped  the  fallow  fields  to  sow, 
Or  climbed  the  stacks  to  toss  the  sheaves 

Into  the  thresher's  jaws  below ; 
Or  with  the  merry  husking  band, 
In  mimic  contest,  hand  to  hand 
With  practiced  men  my  strength  I  plied, 
Or  at  the  plow  my  sinews  tried ; 
Then  vied  with  boys  in  winter  sports 
Of  skating  feats  and  snow-built  forts ; 
Or  with  mute  flocks  and  cattle  sought 
Companionship  absolved  from  thought ; 
How  to  the  slow-awakening  spring 
I  lent  my  awkward  aid,  to  bring 
Your  garden  walks  and  beds  and  blooms 
Out  of  their  shroud  of  winter  glooms ; 
Or  with  the  planter's  pouch  and  hoe 


SYBELLE.  31 

Traced  o'er  the  fields  the  furrowed  row, 
Or  sought  for  friends  among  the  broods 

o  o 

Of  birds  that  haunt  your  pleasant  woods, 
Or  squirrels  chattering  through  the  glen  — 
All,  anything  but  books  and  men 
I  welcomed  ;  and  not  all  in  vain, 
To  nerves  unstrung,  exhausted  brain, 
And  nature  all  o'ertasked  to  gain 
A  triumph  for  the  mind.     I  won 

That  dear-bought  victory,  Sybelle, 
Against  most  fearful  odds.     The  sun 

Day  after  day,  and  light  that  fell 
From  midnight  moons,  and  evening  stars, 
And  mornings  gray  through  cloudy  bars, 
For  months  scarce  noticed,  came  and  went, 
And  found  me  still  untiring,  bent, 
Soul,  mind  and  body  to  that  strife 

Of  mind  with  might,  to  win  the  right. 
That  triumph  won  was  won  for  life  ; 

But  lost,  had  left  me  still  in  night, 

Groping  and  struggling  for  the  light. 
From  that  long,  stormy  war  to  rest, 
A  wearied  child  I  sought  the  west, 
And  threw  myself  on  nature's  breast. 
So  many  flowers  were  blooming  here, 
So  many  song  birds  charmed  my  ear, 
I  loved  to  lie  beside  the  stream 
And  blend  them  all  in  one  sweet  dream, 
Yourself  among  them.     Was  it  wrong  ? 
Your  song  so  like  the  thrush's  song, 
When  it  comes  low  and  trilling  through 
The  deep  woods  heavy  with  mist  dew, 


32  SYBELLE. 

Foretelling  soft,  sweet  summer  rain ; 

Your  face  so  like  your  roses  fair, 
I  o\vn  I  felt  a  thrill  of  pain  - 

To  find  that  you  had  thought  or  care, 
More  than  your  happy  birds  and  flowers, 
For  life  beyond  your  wildwood  bowers. 
Selfish !  ungenerous  !     In  your  eyes 
I  see  the  accusations  rise. 
Forgive,  Sybelle,  that  selfishness. 
When  rest  from  thought  to  me  was  bliss, 
I  chafed  to  think  of  mammon's  crown 
Bending  the  dewy  roses  down, 
Or  thrushes  singing  for  renown ! 
But  all  you  ask  is  your  own  right, 
Since  even  your  roses  seek  the  light, 
And  lovelier  grow  therein.     Now,  strong 
In  mind  and  heart  to  right  the  wrong, 
Such  happy  penance  would  I  do, 
As  with  my  pupil  wander  through 
The  fields  of  thought  that  wide  unroll 
From  history's  almost  magic  scroll. 
From  the  far  dim  and  distant  ages, 
Grand  prophet  bards  and  hero  sages 
Shall  meet  us  there ;  poetic  fires 
Shall  flash  again  along  their  lyres  — 
That  true  inspired  flame  that  leads 

Thought  upward  by  its  heavenly  glow, 
A  fire  from  heaven,  embalming  deeds 

Of  men  whom  gods  were  proud  to  know. 
And  kings  of  nature's  royal  race, 

Noblest  among  the  sons  of  light, 
Old  kings  of  thought,  who  hold  their  place 

Secure  by  mind's  divinest  right 


SY  BELLE.  33 

Above  the  sceptre,  throne  and  crown, 
Shall  from  their  heights  serene  look  down 
Their  blessings  on  our  pilgrimage, 
As  wandering  on  from  age  to  age, 
We  find  the  seed  their  hands  have  sown 
To*ripened  fruit  and  vintage  grown. 
Those 'fruits  we  taste,  that  living  wine 
Shall  make  us  like  themselves  divine  — 
Divine  like  theirs  our  lives  to  sow 
With  thoughts  that  shall  immortal  grow. 
And  harps  of  pleasant-sounding  string 
The  bards  of  later  birth  shall  bring  — 
Interpreters  of  life  and  thought, 
Teaching  us  how  the  world  is  taught. 
So  shall  you  by  their  lessons  learn 
What  fires  on  poet  altars  burn  ; 
How  they  alone  successful  sing, 
Who  know  with  skill  to  touch  the  string 
To  which  all  human  passions  cling  — 

The  chord  of  human  sympathy : 
It  vibrates  to  ambition's  claim 
The  welcome,  wished-for  echo,  fame ; 
It  thrills  to  love's  pervading  flame, 

Though  all  unknown  the  hand  may  be 
Whose  fingers  warm,  from  warmer  heart, 
The  sympathetic  fires  impart ; 
It  trembles  deep  to  sorrow's  moan, 
Or  lightly  bounds  to  pleasure's  tone  ; 
And  he  the  truest  poet  lives, 

Who,  daring  to  be  true  and  strong, 
To  human  passions  fearless  gives 
Expression  in  ennobling  song. 


34  S  Y  B  E  L  L  E. 

Fame  on  such  brows  her  crown  confers  — 
The  world  is  proud  of  conquerors; 
And  life  is  better  worth  our  breath 

That  they  are  born  who  dare  to  livre, 
Who  scorn  the  coward's  daily  death, 

And  claim  of  life  all  it  can  give. 

"  Life  and  the  world !     I  feel  again 
Their  call  through  strengthened  frame  and  brain, 
Warning  the  truant  back.     Too  long 
He  lingers  in  this  vale  of  song. 
Still,  ere  he  go,  he  fain  would  dream 
One  summer  hour  beside  the  stream, 
While  yet  along  its  tranquil  vale 
It  woos  the  wild  flowers  bending  pale, 
Reading  what  strange,  sweet  prophecy 
In  its  unresting  depths  may  be, 
And  guiding  Avith  what  skill  he  may 
Its  progress  toward  the  brighter  day 
It  seeks  ;  till  from  the  hill  and  glade 
The  slumbrous  summer  haze  shall  fade, 
Till  over  wood  and  cottage  wall 
!N~o  more  the  harvest  moonlights  fall  — 
An  hour  of  months,  yet  all  too  brief, 
Till  autumn  drops  her  warning  leaf, 
Then,  strong  to  measure  might  again 
With  iron  wills  of  iron  men, 
His  dreaming  ends,  himself  content, 

Nay,  blest,  if  he  one  joy  may  give 
To  those  sweet  eyes  upon  him  bent 

In  earnest  asking  but  to  live." 


SYBELLE.  35 

Slow  from  its  forest  dream  awaking, 
With  noon's  broad  sunlight  o'er  it  breaking, 
Through  all  its  waves,  the  streamlet  clear 

O  * 

Trembles  with  joy  akin  to  fear, 
To  find  its  ocean  goal  so  near  ! 


Sybelle,  thou  hast  pressed  to  thy  thirsting  lip 
A  cup  the  bravest  might  fear  to  sip. 
Was  ever  a  goblet  of  brimming  bliss 
So  crowned  with  the  promise  of  life  as  this  ? 
And  did  ever  a  mad  bacchante  clasp 
A  more  fatal  cup  in  her  trembling  grasp, 
Or  drain  to  the  dregs  from  its  rosy  brim 
Where  she  saw  not  the  beaded  poison  swim, 
With  a  wilder  joy  than  thine  eager  soul 
Hath  grasped  and  will  drink  from  this  tempting  bowl? 
No  voice  to  thy  heart  hath  whispered  of  fear, 
No  warning  floats  up  through  the  nectar  clear, 
Thou  hast  heard  but  the  one  endearing  tone 
That  low  to  thy  listening  ear  alone, 
Hath  said,  it  is  life !     Thou  dost  fearless  stand, 
With  the  wreathed  and  crowned  cup  in  thy  hand, 
Thy  lips  are  pressed  to  the  brim  overflowing, 
Deeper  and  warmer  the  rich  draught  is  growing, 
Richer  and  wai'mer  its  currents  are  glowing 
Through  all  thy  young  being.     What  madness  is 

thine, 
To  dream  life  alone  can  give  joy  so  divine ! 


That  hour  of  months  was  all  too  brief — 
Tke  thresher  waits  the  ripened  sheaf, 


36  SYBELLE. 

The  summer's  purple  haze  is  gone, 
The  wan  moon  at  the  gates  of  dawn 
Dethroned  and  sceptreless  lays  down, 
Sad  queen,  her  glorious  harvest  crown, 
And  fast  o'er  all  the  vale  and  plain 
Fall  autumn's  warning  leaves  —  in  vain ! 


Low  moans  the  sad  autumnal  gale, 
It  will  not  let  the  dead  leaves  rest, 

See  one  by  one  adown  the  vale 

It  flings  them  on  the  streamlet's  breast. 

Poor  withered  leaves,  poor  silent  stream, 
Together  died  your  bloom  and  song, 

How  brief  for  you  the  summer  dream, 
For  you  the  autumn  gloom  how  long. 

The  dreary  winds  moan  sad  and  low, 
The  dead  leaves  sink  beneath  the  wave, 

The  streamlet  murmurs  in  its  flow 
As  if  it  too  would  find  a  grave. 

O  murmuring  one,  thy  ocean  tomb 
Far  in  the  future  years  will  be, 

And  leaves  will  bud  and  flowrets  bloom 
Along  this  silent  vale  for  thee. 

Low  sounds  November's  latest  sigh, 
Soft  fall  the  snows  above  his  bier, 

And  bloom  and  song  and  beauty  die 
While  winter  shrouds  the  buried  year 


BYBELLE.  37 

But  life  is  wakening  in  the  vale 

Again  beneath  the  skies  of  May; 
And  June's  sweet  rose  and  lily  pale 

Bend  o'er  the  wandering  streamlet's  Avay. 

Ye^  not  one  passion-dimpled  smile 

Awakes  for  rose  or  lily  fair, 
And  plaintive  moans  the  brook  the  while 

Beneath  the  bloom  and  foliage  rare. 

But  soft  amid  the  summer  light 

A  mystic  lay  of  love  is  sung, 
O  not  for  wild  flowers  wreathing  bright 

Or  leaves  upon  her  bosom  flung. 

A  cloud  floats  in  the  skies  above  — 

An  angel  presence,  half  at  rest, 
"With  soft  enfolding  wings  of  love, 

Deep  mirrored  in  the  streamlet's  breast. 

That  sunbright  cloud  !  how  low  it  bends ! 

What  joy  its  heaven-born  beauty  brings! 
"With  hers  its  being  almost  blends, 

It  folds  her  with  its  shadowy  wings. 

From  bank  to  bank  the  brook's  sweet  lay 
The  thrilled  and  rippling  wavelets  bear ; 

She  lingers  on  her  tranced  way, 
Her  cloud  love  lingers  in  the  air. 

On  her  soft  breast  his  image  lies, 
And  he  for  such  sweet  joy  as  this 


38  SYBELLE. 

Would  almost  leave  his  azure  skies 
And  melt  amid  those  depths  of  bliss. 

It  may  not  be.     O  bending  cloud, 

Away — the  parched  earth  calls  thee  now ; 

Amid  the  gathering  storm-kings  proud 
There  is  no  prouder  one  than  thou. 

Away !  thy  lightning  sword  must  flash 
In  stormy  scenes  and  stirring  strife, 

Where  battling  ranks  with  thunder  crash 
Meet  on  the  tented  fields  of  life. 

But  ever  'mid  that  discord  wild, 

"Will  come  to  thee  in  grief  or  wrong 

The  memory  of  the  forest  child, 

The  wayward  brooklet's  love  and  song. 

It  may  not  be:  alas,  fond  stream, 

Though  mirrored  in  each  trembling  wave 

Thoul't  bear  thy  cloud  love  like  a  dream, 
A  shadow  to  thy  ocean  grave. 

With  quiet  eongs  adown  the  vale 

Thou  still  nSay'st  chant  thy  hapless  lay, 

Beneath  November's  storm  clouds  pale, 
Beneath  tM%)lushing  skies  of  May: 

But  dearer  than  the  heavens  above, 

Or  summer  flowers  that  round  thee  bloom, 

The  memory  of  that  cloud-land  love 
Thou  bearest  to  thy  ocean  tomb. 


S  YBELLE. 


PART  II. 

The  sunset  tints  of  amber  light 
Flame  up  the  western  skies  to-night, 
A  broad,  fair  sea  of  burnished  gold, 
With  cloudland  shores  around  it  rolled ; 
"While  like  some  glorious  tropic  isle 
Where  summer  suns  eternal  smile, 
One  radiant  star  as  day  declines 
Amid  that  sea  of  splendor  shines, 
An  island  heaven,  where  angels  stand, 
And  wistful  gaze  on  that  far  land 
Whose  cloud-enfolded  mystery  seems 
The  hidden  goal  of  life-long  dreams. 
They  see,  slow  moving  to  and  fro, 
The  phantom  shadows  come  and  go; 
They  hear  such  music  from  afar 
As  never  blessed  their  island  star 
And  bending  o'er  those  crystal 
Where  calm  the  pallid  twilight  sleeps, 
Wave  far  and  wide  their  glittering  plumes, 
Till  flashing  o'er  the  distant  glooms 
They  meet  those  beckoning  forms  of  air, 
And  sink  in  silent  darkness  where 


40  SYBELLE. 

The  rippling  waves  of  melting  gold 
Around  those  cloudland  shores  are  rolled. 

O  come  thou  cynic  cold  and  stern ; 
Come  vestal  from  thy  burial  urn  ; 
Come  cowled  priest,  whose  dream  of  life 
At  best  is  but  a  fearful  strife, 
A  guilty  bai'ter  on  thy  part 
Of  all  thou  hast  of  God  or  heart, 
For  living  death  in  such  a  grave 
As  God  to  nature  never  gave  ; 
Come  watch  the  fires  of  fading  day 
Amid  the  gathering  shadows  play. 
See  how  the  daylight  veils  her  face 
With  blushes  in  the  night's  embrace, 
And  how  upon  yon  cloud's  dark  breast 
The  impassioned  lightning  finds  its  rest, 
While  bending  from  their  thrones  on  high 

CJ  O 

The  star-eyed  angels  smile  to  die, 

If  for  such  bliss  their  death  atone 

As  visits  not  their  Eden  lone. 

Though  round  their  heaven  such  glory  lies 

They  cloud-wai-d  bend  their  longing  eyes, 

And  trembling  with  a  strange  desire, 

Slow  raise  their  quivering  wings  of  fire, 

Forsake  their  thrones  of  light  serene, 

Speed  o'er  the  ambar  deeps  between, 

And  panting  clasp  those  airy  forms 

To  sink  amid  a  night  of  storms, 

More  blest  that  wild  desire  to  tame 

Though  darkness  shroud  their  forms  of  flame  ; 

More  blest  those  quivering  wings  to  fold 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  41 

O'er  pulses  stilled  and  passions  cold, 
Than  freed  alike  from  bliss  and  pain 
In  yon  empyrean  pure  to  reign. 

O  what  can  virtue  know  of  love, 
WRen  ice  cold  hands  are  clasped  above 
A  bosom  passionless  as  snow  ? 
And  what  can  love  of  virtue  know, 
When  isolate,  serene  and  lone, 
It  triumphs  on  its  marble  throne  ? 
The  deserts  clasp  their  own  green  isles ; 

To  arid  sands  are  fountains  singing ; 
The  blasted  tree  in  verdure  smiles 

With  moss  and  vine  leaves  round  it  clinging. 
The  cold,  bright  icebergs  borne  afar 
From  realms  beneath  the  polar  star, 
Give  vigor  to  the  languid  breeze 
That  faints  amid  the  tropic  seas, 
Then  bend  to  meet  the  clasping  wave, 
At  once  their  altar  and  their  grave. 
And  lo,  along  yon  clouded  skies, 
As  mystic  boreal  torches  rise, 
Soft  flashing  o'er  the  deepening  night, 
They  bathe  the  heavens  in  purple  light, 
Till  earth,  but  now  a  darkened  tomb, 
Is  blushing  back  a  rosy  bloom  — 
All  thrilled  and  tremulous  she  glows 
Beneath  the  light  from  arctic  snows, 
With  flames  more  subtle,  more  divine 
Than  from  the  noonday  splendors  shine. 

Who  would  forever  s;aze  on  heaven 


42  SYBELLE. 

If  to  its  blue  no  clouds  were  given  ? 
Or  bless  the  sun's  eternal  light 
If  nature  gave  no  change  of  night  ?  ) 
A  stagnant  pool  the  waveless  sea 
Within  its  silent  shores  would  be ; 
And  earth  one  broad  Sahara  made 
Without  its  blended  light  and  shade. 
No  flower  of  living  joy  may  bloom 
That  springs  not  from  another's  tomb , 
And  life  and  love  are  only  true, 
When  with  the  thorns  and  cross  in  view, 
With  patient  strength  and  faith  sublime 
They  dare  the  mount  of  woe  to  climb, 
And  brave  death's  dark  ordeal  through, 
Its  conquerors  and  its  victims  too. 

What  can  they  know  of  life  who  stand 
Alone  amid  the  desert's  sand  ; 
Or  shrink  some  cheerless  cell  within 
To  die  of  coward  shame  and  sin  ? 
Even  pleasure  grasps  her  own  sweet  rose, 
Though  sharp  the  thorn  beneath  it  grows ; 
The  cross  where  martyred  vii-tue  prays 
Alone  is  crowned  with  glory's  rays ; 
And  heaven's  high  portals  are  undone 
Through  suffering  of  the  Sinless  One. 
The  daring  heart,  the  hand  of  steel 
Alone  the  conqueror's  joy  can  feel. 
Then  welcome  nature's  ceaseless  strife, 
Her  life  in  death,  and  death  in  life, 
And  let  the  pale  lips  joyful  press 
The  cup  they  have  not  strength  to  bless  — 


SYBELLE. 

Life's  bitter  cup,  where  love  divine 
Hath  mingled  wormwood  with  the  wine. 

\O  there  be  human  hearts  that  crave 
More  of  the  world  than  just  a  grave  ; 
Wliile  life  has  so  much  more  to  give 
They  must  have  more  than  just  to  live./ 
They  would  not  breathe  if  breath  were  all 
That  bound  them  here  in  being's  thrall ; 
They  cannot  fold  their  hands  and  pine 
Beside  life's  goblet  brimmed  with  wine, 
With  thirsty  lip    and  longing  eye 
Dream  that  they  dream,  and  dreaming  die 
To  make  life  one  long  breathing  lie. 
Though  all  those  purple  depths  may  glow 
With  blended  drops  of  bliss  and  woe, 
With  promise  of  but  dregs  at  last 
When  the  delirious  draught  is  past, 
It  matters  not :  there  be  who  drain 
And    wish  the   goblet  filled  again, 
So  sweet  it  is  in  life  to  prove 
All  hearts  can  know  of  life  and  love. 

Such  mingled  draught  was  thine,  Sybelle, 
Though  drawn  from  love's  enchanted  well, 
Though  sweet  with  all  its  honeyed  store, 
With  beaded  kisses  brimming  o'er, 
And  warm  with  that  most  subtle  power 
Love  has  o'er  life  in  passion's  hour. 
O  sweet  and  warm  on  lip    and  tongue, 
And  thrilling  as  the  songs  you  sung, 
Down  to  your  heart  the  maddening  draught 


44  SYBELLE. 

Went  burning  still  and  still  you  quaffed, 

Till  over  lip  and  brow  and  brain 

The  fiery  nectar  flushed  again. 

And  though  the  gall-drops  blended  there 

Blanched  from  your  cheeks  the  roses  fair, 

And  clouded  your  calm, trustful  eyes 

With  something  of  the  world's  disguise, 

Though  darker  for  the  glory  gone 

The  future's  sunless  years  come  on, 

Still  could  your  life  go  back  once  more, 

As  gladly,  wildly  as  before, 

With  all  that  craving  thirst  of  soul, 

Your  hands  would  grasp  the  proffered  bowl, 

And  to  the  dregs,  if  dregs  there  be, 

Your  lips  would  drain  it  eagerly : 

'Twere  worth  all  life  can  know  of  pain, 

To  love  and  be  so  loved  again  ! 

No  longer  now  within  those  eyes, 
Or  on  that  lip  unanswered  lies 
The  heart's  great  question.     O'er  and  o'er, 
Each  day  more  clearly  than  before, 
Two  hearts  in  conscious  silence  .prove, 
That  love  is  life  and  life  is  love.") 
What  other  power  than  love  could  throw 
O'er  all  thy  world  so  warm  a  glow, 
Or  wake  within  that  sylvan  dell 
Such  songs  from  thy  sweet  lips,  Sybelle  ? 


Open,  O  buds,  to  the  light  that  is  shining, 
Waiting  and  pleading  to  bless, 

Pale  in  your  pale  hearts  no  longer  repining 
Wake  to  the  soft  wind's  caress. 


SYBELLE.  45 

Sunlight  and  south  winds  are  pleading  to  you, 
Night  bathes  your  lips  with  her  kisses  of  dew, 
Morn  gives  you  draughts  of  her  balmiest  rain, 
Open,  O  buds  of  the  valley  and  plain, 
The  summer  is  here  in  her  fulness  of  bliss, 
Why  sleep  through  a  life  of  such  beauty  as  this  ? 

Dreaming"  like  you  with  life's  light  o'er  me  shining, 

Waiting  and  pleading  to  bless, 
Cold  in  my  cold  heart  I  murmured,  repining, 

Shrinking  from  beauty's  cai-ess  — 
Beauty  that  wooed  me  to  nature's  pure  arms, 
Crowded  and  crowned  all  my  days  with  its  charms. 
Longing  and  dreaming  of  life  more  complete, 
Scorning  the  perfect  one  cast  at  my  feet, 
A.nd  closing  my  eyes  to  its  promise  of  bliss, 
I  slept  as  you  sleep  'mid  such  beauty  as  this. 

Welcoming  now  the  pure  light  that  is  shining, 
Pleading  no  longer  in  vain, 

O  O  ' 

Flowers  that  I  scorned  in  my  childish  repining, 

Open  to  bless  me  again. 

Winds  that  bring  balm  from  the  tropic  isles  blest, 
Birds  that  sing  low  from  the  summer-full  nest, 
Grasses  that  quiver  with  life  at  my  feet, 
"River  full  brimmed  Avith  the  summer  rains  sweet, 
Proud  trees  bending  low  in  your  stillness  of  bliss, 
What  spell  hath  enwrapped  you  with  beauty  like 
this  ? 

Soft  through  the  valley  a  splendor  is  shining, 
Softly  and  golden  it  falls, 


46  SYBELLE. 

Over  the  trees  with  their  branches  entwining, 

Over  the  low  cottage  walls, 
Over  the  fields  with  their  harvests  and  herds, 
Over  the  blossoms,  the  river,  the  birds, 
All  nature  so  glowing  and  living  in  light, 
Day  giving  warmth  to  the  glory  of  night  — 
O  heart  how  long  darkened  and  dead  to  all  bliss, 
That  lived  and  yet  lived  not  in  beauty  like  this ! 


As  waking  from  a  troubled  dream 
Amid  a  world  of  light  I  stand, 

By  waters  whose  unfailing  flow 

Gleams  ever  bright  o'er  golden  sand. 

I  breathe  a  blessing  on  thy  name, 
My  guide  to  fountains  so  divine  ; 

I  drink,  believing  only  life 

Can  come  from  hand  so  pure  as  thine. 

No  mad  bacchante's  poisoned  cup 
Is  this  that  to  my  lip  is  pressed, 

No  rosy  wine  inspires  such  bliss 

As  thou  hast  waked  within  my  breast. 

Thy  words  were  like  the  prophet's  wand, 
They  touched  the  rock,  and  to  thy  side 

How  quick  the  living  waters  sprang, 
Delighted  in  thy  sight  to  glide. 

Now  bending  o'er  the  crystal  wave 

I  fill  life's  goblet  unto  thee, 
And  pledge  thee  by  that  love  alone 

From  thought  of  earthly  passion  free. 


SYBELLE.  47 

No  bitter  drops  from  Marali's  stream 

Are  mingled  in  the  cup  I  drain, 
And  pure  as  thou  to  me  hast  given 

I  give  it  back  to  thee  again. 

0  take  it  from  the  grateful  hand 
That  fills  it  brimming  o'er  for  thee, 

And  pledge  me  by  that  love  alone 
From  thought  of  earthly  passion  free. 


Blow  soft  and  low,  sweet  southern  wind, 
Blow  wai'm.  and  low,  and  swift  unbind 
The  fettered  snowdrop ;  pale  she  lies, 
Till  thou  unclose  her  sealed  eyes  ; 
Pale  in  her  cell  the  violet  weeps, 
Arid  pale  the  sainted  lily  sleeps  — 
A  poet  dreaming  over  rhymes, 

With  sweet  bells  waiting  all  in  tune 
To  welcome  in  with  fragrant  chimes 

Thy  bridal  with  the  rose  of  June. 
Sweet  rose  with  thorns  enguarded  round, 
And  pale  in  clasping  calyx  bound, 
No  longer  at  thy  emerald  gates 
The  wind  with  patient  wooing  waits ; 
Though  thorns  may  point  around,  above, 
Thorns  pierce  not  half  so  deep  as  love.) 
Stung  by  that  passion-barbed  desire, 
With  tropic  breath  and  pulse  of  fire 
Thy  lover  comes  ;  along  his  way 
The  snowdrop  fainted  where  she  lay; 
He  kissed  the  violet's  tears  away ; 
He  touched  the  waiting  lily  bells, 


48  SYBELLE. 

Their  chime  his  waiting  bliss  foretells. 

In  vain  in  triple  order  stand 

Those  serried  guai-ds,  a  bristling  band, 

He  comes  to  thee  unharmed  through  harms, 

He  folds  thee  in  his  eager  arms, 

His  sighs  the  calyx  bands  unpart, 

His  kisses  wake  and  warm  thy  heart, 

Till  crimson  blushes,  self-confessing, 

Thy  willing  lips  to  his  are  pressing, 

And  both,  with  clasp  and  sigh  and  kiss, 

Rest  perfect  in  your  bloom  and  bliss. 

How  long  the  silent  woods  among, 

The  willow  boughs  in  silence  hung ; 

How  pale,  with  life  half  understood, 

The  still  flowers  waited  in  the  wood, 

Or  only  stirred  by  passing  wing, 

Or  by  the  fickle  winds  of  Spring, 

Till  Summer  came.     Sweet  Summer  wind, 

Thy  loves  the  forest  tongues  unbind  : 

Life  breaks  in  bloom  from  shrub  and  tree, 

The  wild  flowers  flush  and  pale  for  thee, 

And  whisper  low  through  all  the  grove, 

O  love  is  life,  and  life  is  love ! 

And  low  among  her  trembling  leaves 

Her  own  love  song  the  willow  weaves. 


Come  close  within  these  clasping  arms, 
O  weary  wandering  Summer  wind, 

And  let  the  lithe  and  drooping  boughs 
Be  with  thy  viewless  being  twined ; 

Then  murmuring  back  thy  whispered  love 
And  folded  in  thy  dear  caress, 

This  charmed  life  to  both  shall  prove 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  49 

One  long  sweet  dream  of  blessedness. 
Come  closer  yet ;  the  willow  bends 

Her  glorious  poet  love  to  meet, 
Her  wreathing  arms  are  round  thee  twined 

In  fond  caresses,  wild  as  sweet. 
Sach  quivering  leaf  that  turns  to  thee 

Is  witness  of  the  love  fires  warm, 
First  faaned  to  life  by  thy  soft  breath 

And  glowing  sweet  through  all  her  form. 
And  each  wild,  passion-kindled  song 

Thou  hearest  in  thy  minstrel  tree, 
Thy  presence  hath  inspired  alone  — 

'Tis  sung,  O  poet  love,  for  thee  ! 
Thy  breath  parts  all  the  gloomy  boughs 

Till  golden  noon  from  azure  skies, 
And  morning's  blush  and  evening's  smile, 

And  light  from  midnight's  starry  eyes, 
And  all  the  joy  of  beauty  born, 

In  earth  or  air,  beneath,  above, 
So  blended  with  thy  presence  seem 

That  all  alike  awaken  love. 
Then  while  within  the  minstrel  tree 

The  willow's  poet  love  may  stay, 
O  wonder  not  she  loves  for  him 

To  weave  the  warm,  impassioned  lay ; 
That  trembling  in  his  clasping  arms 

She  yields  her  lips  to  his  fond  kiss, 
In  that  long  breathless  draught  that  fills 

Her  summer  dream  with  perfect  bliss  ! 


Is  it  thy  spirit,  Love,  that  glows 
Through  all  the  fervid  summer  air, 
3 


50  SYBELLE. 

Filling  the  deep  woods  with  repose 

That  is  not  rest  —  a  yearning  care, 
A  strange  and  tremulous  desire 

Thy  own  intensest  power  to  learn  — 
A  breathless  longing  for  that  fire 

That  all  consumes,  since  it  must  burn  ? 
There  is  no  breath  the  leaves  to  move, 

Yet  quivering  through  the  glowing  hours, 
In  rapt  unrest  they  bend  above 

The  silent,  upward-gazing  flowers, 
Flowers  blushing  at  their  own  sweet  s^low, 

O  O  ' 

And  trembling  though  no  winds  may  blow ; 
As  she,  the  valley's  fairest  rose, 
Alone  where  wild  the  river  flows, 
Blushes  and  trembles  in  her  dream  — 

Her  half-awakened  dream  of  love, 
Watching  a  vision  of  the  stream 

With  its  white  bending  cloud  above. 

On  with  ceaseless  music  ever 
Sweeps  and  swells  the  restless  river, 
Deeper  growing,  swifter,  stronger  — 
Ah,  that  guiding  hand  no  longer 
Turns  at  will  the  yielding  current, 
Checks  or  speeds  the  rushing  torrent. 

Toward  the  cloud  up-gazing  ever, 
Smiles  and  sings  the  happy  river; 
He,  an  all  too  willing  lover, 
Beckons  on  and  bends  above  her, 
To  her  bright  waves  dimples  bringing, 
Paying  kisses  back  for  singing. 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  51 

Whither,  whither  are  ye  tending, 
Cloud  and  stream  together  blending! 
Passion-blinded,  maddened,  dying, 
But  to  quench  that  fiery  sighing, 
Burning  cloud  and  throbbing  river, 
In  the  flame  that  burns  forever! 

On  the  'gulf  s  dark  brink  the  river 
One  brief  instant  pauses  ever, 
Breathless  from  its  dream  aAvaking, 
Pauses  ere  that  last  plunge  taking, 
Down  to  depths  where  never,  never, 
Comes  another  dream  forever ! 

Blinded  by  love's  fatal  kisses, 

Will  they  see  those  dark  abysses  ? 

Lo,  in  music  breathing  ever, 

To  the  cloud  the  waking  river, 

'  Mid  the  white  spray  round  her  clinging, 

On  that  fatal  brink  is  singing. 

Startled  by  the  echoes  wailing, 
With  her  cheek  now  flushing,  paling, 
Fair  Sybelle,  from  dreams  awaking, 
With  that  love-light  round  her  breaking, 
Where  the  warm  rays  glance  and  quiver 
Sings  beside  the  waking  river. 

"I  who  placed  my  hopes  above 
All  that  woman  hopes  from  love, 
In  my  eager  grasp  for  fame 
Plunged  into  the  fatal  flame] 


52  SYBELLE. 

What  but  love  is  this  that  turns 
All  my  thoughts  to  one  that  burns 
Lava-like  through  nerve  and  vein, 
Filling  soul  and  sense  and  brain  ? 
What  but  love  that  makes  the  skies 
Dark,  when  from  those  earnest  eyes 
Mine  must  turn  with  maiden  dread, 
Fearful  lest  the  truth  be  read  ? 
What  but  love  makes  every  tone 
Falling  from  those  lips  alone 
Sweeter  far  than  music's  own, 
Every  smile  that  they  have  given 
Dearer  than  my  hopes  of  heaven, 
Every  word  that  they  have  spoken 
Binding  like  a  spell  unbroken 
Since  I  gave,  in  trusting  hour, 
Thought  and  being  to  their  power  ? 
Yielding  to  ambition's  spell, 
Drinking  deep  from  learning's  well, 
I  have  drank  of  love  as  well. 
Love!  Whence  came  it?  I  nor  sought, 
Knew,  nor  dreamed  it  in  my  thought. 
Childlike  to  his  guiding  hand 
Mine  I  gave,  and  loved  to  stand, 
Heedless  of  my  flowers  and  birds, 
Listening  to  his  dearer  words  — 
Dear,  that  to  my  wondering  sight 
They  unveiled  such  worlds  of  light ; 
Teaching  me  that  life  is  where 
Soul  and  sense  with  being  are, 
Bounded  not  by  realm  or  zone, 
Crowded  street  or  forest  lone  ; 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  53 

Drawing  from  the  trees  and  fiowers 
Lessons  sweet  for  summer  hours  — 
Such  as  I  had  never  known, 
Though  my  life  with  theirs  had  grown ; 
Waking  beauty  from  the  sod 
In  the  very  path  I  trod  ; 
Calling  back  the  immortal  dead 
From  tile  deathless  page  we  read ; 
Grandest  truth  and  noblest  thought 
From  those  lips  new  beauty  caught ; 
Lowliest  objects  owned  the  spell 
Where  those  words  of  music  fell. 
I,  who  loved  the  words,  have  grown 
Strangely  dear  to  prize  the  tone ; 
Strangely  dear  the  soul  to  prize 
Looking  on  me  from  those  eyes 
Bending  oft  so  close  above, 
Offering  life  but  taking  love  — 
Taking,  till  mine  eyes  no  more 
See  the  future's  shadowy  shore, 
For  this  ever  blinding  flame 
Shrouding  all  my  hopes  of  fame ; 
Taking,  till  my  cheek  grows  pale, 
And  my  throbbing  pulses  fail, 
When  his  presence  may  not  give 
That  sweet  fire  on  which  they  live  ; 
Till  between  the  heavens  and  me 
Evermore  those  eyes  I  see ; 
Till  no  other  voice  I  hear, 
Till  that  smile  alone  is  dear, 
And  I  tremble  with  a  fear, 
Strange  and  sweet  as  sorrow  is 


54  S  Y  B  E  L  L  E. 

On  the  brink  of  happiness. 
Still  with  sealed  lips  and  heart 
I  must  act  the  pupil's  part ; 
Listening,  calmly  as  I  may, 
To  his  teachings  day  by  day, 
As  he  points  with  steady  hand 
Where  ambition's  votaries  stand, 
Girded  strong  the  race  to  run 
Ere  their  laurels  may  be  won, 
Urging  me  with  purpose  high 
In  their  fame  to  share,  while  I 
All  would  give  if  one  caress 
On  that  hand  my  lips  might  press. 
Madness  !  folly !     But  this  hour 
Bend  I  thus  to  passion's  power ; 
Back  to  life  my  soul  must  turn, 
All  these  idle  dreamings  spurn  : 
Hiding  in  my  heart  alone 
All  of  love  that  I  have  known, 
Gathering  round  me,  fold  on  fold, 
Vestal  garments  pure  and  cold, 
On  ambition's  nobler  shrine 
I  must  light  the  fires  divine, 
And  beside  that  deathless  flame 
Sing  alone  for  name  and  fame." 

Ah,  proud  resolves,  you  lived  your  little  hour, 
Then  drooped  and  faded  as  some  fragile  flower 
Long  nursed  in  shadows  chill,  may  droop  and  fail, 
When  noon's  full  blaze  falls  on  its  petals  pale ! 
(^Ah,  more  than  woman  hadst  thou  been,  Sybelle, 
Successful  to  resist  that  wondrous  spell 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  55 

Love  wrought  upon  thy  woman's  heart  l)  And  more 
Than  man,  or  less,  who  daily  bending  o'er 
The  bright,  up-glancing  stream,  could  fail  to  know 
His  own  form  clasped  in  every  wave,  while  low 
His  name  blent  ever  with  their  murmuring  flow. 
Ah,*more  than  man  who  had  not  longed  to  lave 
Lip,  brow  and  bosom  in  that  swelling  Avave, 
Who,  thirsting  unto  death  in  deserts  lone, 
Would  shrink  to  taste  a  fountain  all  his  own ! 

Love's  miracle  of  love,  its  life  in  life  is  this, 
That  breath  of  time  that  spans  an  age  of  bliss, 
When  eyes  long  gazing  into  eyes  have  learned 
All  that  sweet  wisdom  by  the  stoics  spurned ; 
When  lips,  long  pressing  sweeter  lips,  grow  pale 
Giving  and  taking,  and  the  breath  half  fail, 
The  arms  clasp  closer,  and  the  burning  brain 
Scarce  dreams  that  virtue  yet  may  warn  in  vain  ! 
Blest  they  who  on  the  gulf's  dark  brink  have  turned, 
And,  safe  with  all  that  dangerous  wisdom  learned, 
Walked  back  to  life  more  perfect,  pure  and  strong, 
Full  of  love's  bliss,  without  its  guilty  wrong  ; 
Warm  with  the  breath  drawn  burning  through  each 

vein 

From  the  sweet  lips  they  dare  to  press  again, 
Full  of  the  light  from  eyes  more  dear  than  heaven, 
Strong  with  the  strength  that  clasping  arms  have 

given, 

By  those  dear  arms  and  eyes  and  lips  to  prove 
That  perfect  love  is  life,  and  life  is  love. 

With  all  its  perfectness  of  bliss  endowed, 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E. 

Proud  in  her  happy  love,  and  pure  as  proud, 
Sybelle,  the  timid  forest  child,  no  more 
Walks  in  vague  dreams  beside  the  river  shore. 
So  many  eves  through  all  the  summer's  prime, 
And  glowing  noons  in  golden  harvest  time, 
So  many  morns  of  fading  splendor  drowned 
In  dreamy  forest  depths  all  autumn-browned, 
So  many  months  of  days  with  loving  hand 
Has  Raimond  led  her  through  historic  land, 
So  long  for  her  the  poet's  pages  turned 
While  on  his  lips  their  inspiration  burned, 
So  oft,  so  earnest  to  her  eager  mind 
Life's  purest  aims,  its  noblest  hopes  defined, 
Leading  her  thoughts  still  outward  from  her  heart 
To  claim  in  great  humanities  their  part, 
That  she  has  caught  his  spirit's  higher  tone, 
And  pure  and  strong  in  his  strong  nature  grown ; 
Self-conscious  of  that  strength  too,  but  no  less 
A  perfect  woman  in  her  tenderness. 

And  she  has  grown  so  beautiful :  there  lies 
The  light  of  that  long  summer  in  her  eyes  — 
All  that  came  down  from  the  unclouded  noons, 
From  the  love-burning  stars  and  tender  moons, 
Mnde  softer,  tenderer  in  those  depths  of  blue, 
By  the  loved  eyes  long  gazing  in  them  too. 
The  pure,  fair  cheeks,  so  rounded,  clear  and  soft, 
Change  their  bright  rose  and  delicate  tints  so  oft, 
That  love  may  read  by  his  mysterious  art 
Quick  telegraphic  flashes  from  the  heart . 
t^On  the  red  lips  they  play  too,  those  sweet  fires, 
To  other  lips  like  charged  electric   wires.) 


SYBELLE.  57 

All  that  warm  bloom  and  half  the  blue  eyes'  light 

Are  woman's,  love's  own  dower  and  beauty's  right. 

But  round  the  tender  mouth  so  firmly  pressed, 

In  movements  free,  yet  all  so  self-possessed, 

In  darker  flames  that  sometimes  light  her  eye, 

In»the  firm  calmness  of  her  forehead  high, 

And  in  the  voice,  true  prophet  of  the  soul, 

There  lives  and  speaks,  unconscious  of  control, 

Strong  in  its  gentleness,  the  spirit  pure 

That  well  can  love  and  silently  endure, 

That  half  its  strength  and  all  its  passion  caught 

From  well  learned  lessons  by  her  lover  taught. 

A  beautiful,  proud,  loving  woman —  one 

Whom  Raimond  has  grown  proud  to  look  upon! 

Part  of  his  life,  his  very  soul  she  seems, 

As  if  his  hand  the  ideal  of  his  d.reams 

Had  caught,  and  prisoned  in  that  living  form ; 

As  if  from  his  own  lips,  pure-breathing,  warm, 

Had  gone  the  fires  through  all  that  lovely  frame, 

That  gave  such  vigor  to  the  kindling  flame 

Of  thought,  it  might  be  genius,  that  so  long 

Found  faint  expression  in  her  girlish  song. 

Kindling  and  glowing  into  life  so  new, 

So  strong,  so  beautiful  her  spirit  grew, 

So  clinging  to  his  own,  and  yet  so  free 

From  weakness  in  its  fond  idolatry, 

That  he  had  grown  to  love  her  with  that  love 

Man  knows  but  once,  nor  ever  soars  above 

In  all  the  flights  his  bold  ambition  dares, 

Nor  yet  can  crush  with  life-long  crowding  cares 

Piled  mountain  high  upon  it :  all  between 

Life's  granite  cliffs  will  cling  its  tendrils  green, 


58  SV  BELLE. 

From  fame's  bleak  pinnacle  it  blushes  down, 
The  only  rose  twined  in  his  laurel  crown. 

Thus,  Raimond,  though  that  love  thou  sacrifice, 
Man-like,  more  free  to  grasp  ambition's  prize, 
Thus  will  its  deathless  fragrance  ever  twine 
Through  all  thy  future  life ;  and  brightly  thine 
Will  glow  amid  the  laurel's  troubled  gloom, 
In  deeds  born  but  of  love's  undying  bloom. 
Aye,  go  and  join  your  battling  ranks  again, 
Match  your  proud  strength  with  strength  of  giant 

men, 

Let  other  arms,  long  plighted,  loved  no  more, 
Welcome  you  nightly  when  the  strife  is  o'er, 
To  gilded  halls  where  desolate  you  roam  — 
Her  gilded  halls,  your  palace  prison  home. 
Seek  with  her  gold  your  woodland  flower  to  hide, 
Crush,  trample  on  it  in  your  march  of  pride, 
Still  fresh  it  springs  beneath  your  iron  tread, 
Acanthus-like  —  immortal  from  the  dead ! 

Is  it  her  doom  traced  on  his  troubled  brow 
Sybelle  is  reading,  gazing  on  him  now, 
With  those  dark  flashes  in  her  tender  eyes 
That  change  to  purple  black  their  azure  dyes  ? 
A  strange  o'ershadowing  of  prophetic  wings 
Seems  darkening  through  the  very  song  she  sings, 
Though  firm  and  sweet  and  "clear  the  music  rings. 

i  "I  sing  for  thee,  love,  a  love  song  of  the  morning, 
'    It  wakened  my  soul  from  its  night  dream  of  l>li:-s. 
Of  thy  lips  on  my  eyes,  love ;  O  was  it  a  warning 
That  tears  should  be  there  in  the  place  of  thy  ki^? 


SY  BELLE.  59 

It  springs  from  my  heart  as  the  wild  bird  is  springing, 
'Mid  dew  drops  and  bloom  from  her  own  forest  tree; 

I'll  sing  it  aloud  as  the  wild  bird  is  singing, 
In  morning's  sweet  twilight  I  sing  it  for  thee. 

I  aing  it  for  thee  ere  the  day  god  is  sending 
His  golden-tipped  arrows  of  brightness  afar, 

While  yet  o'er  .his  couch  the  night-mother  is  bending, 
Her  pale  forehead  gemmed  with  one  beautiful  star. 

Strange  moment  of  doubt,  when  the  worshipped  ideal 
Seems  purer  and  holier  far  than  the  true, 

When  we  gaze  on  the  rising  but  shadowy  real 

Through  mystical  light  born  of  starbeams  and  dew. 

O  love,  might  we  grasp  the  loved  forms  that  arc  flying, 
The  visions  that  fade  with  the  twilight  away  !  — 

Alas,  in  the  light  that  reveals  them  they're  dying, 
As  night  ever  dies  by  the  cradle  of  day. 

Proud  Night !  as  she  bends  o'er  the  god  at  his  waking, 

His  aiTows  are  lodged  in  her  beautiful  breast ; 
She  sinks  mid  the  splendor  that  round  her  is  breaking, 
And  the  stars  have  gone  down  to  watch  over  her  rest. 

Farewell  to  thee,  star-crowned  and  peerless  Ideal, 
Farewell  to  the  dreams  that  are  buried  with  thee ! 

And  welcome  the  strong-hearted,  passionless  Real 
That  riseth  in  power  as  the  night  shadows  flee. 

It  comes  to  the  world  like  the  sunshine,  revealing 
What  ages  of  starlight  could  never  have  shown  ;  — 


60  SY  BELLE. 

It  comes  to  the  heart  by  the  lone  grave  of  feeling, 
And  sets  its  broad  seal  on  the  sepulchre  stone. 

It  comes  to  me  now  as  the  day  beam  is  shining, 
But  sealed  in  my  heart  must  its  prophecies  be, 

For  pale  as  yon  stars  in  the  twilight  declining,       K 
Are  fading  the  dreams  I  was  dreaming  of  thee  \J 

"  Blow  free  and  strong,  O  winds  of  morn, 
Blow  far  all  dreams  of  darkness  born  1 
Behold,  on  azure  heights  afar, 
Fair  shines  the  morning's  herald  star ! 
In  silence  deep  on  plain  and  steep 
The  shivering  shadows  closer  creep ; 
The  twilight  dies  in  purple  skies, 
The  white  mist  on  her  starry  eyes ; 
And  fair  and  frail  above  the  vale 
The  night-long  wandering  moon  grows  pale. 
Shine  bright  above,  O  star  of  love, 
The  purer  coming  day  to  prove ! 
Blow  strong  for  right,  O  winds  of  might, 
Blow  wide  the  morning  gates  of  light, 
Blow  far  all  dreams  and  doubtful  gleams 
Till  perfect  day  above  us  beams ! " 

"  Too  soon  it  comes,  Sybelle ;  our  dreams  have 

grown 

So  sweet,  so  dear  amid  these  twilights  lone, 
I  could  almost  have  wished  no  other  bliss 
In  life,  or  other  world  or  heaven  than  this. 
Too  soon  —  again  those  half-defiant  flashes, 
Sybelle,  burn  darkly  through  your  shadowy  lashes. 


SYBELLE.  61 

What  mean  they,  love  ?     I  saw  them  once  before, 
That  sweet  June  night  when  by  the  river  shore 
You  prayed  for  life,  and  thought  your  lips  could 

press 

Rich  wine  even  from  its  dregs  of  bitterness. 
They  do ;  and  from  their  own  excess  return 
A  richer  wine  wrhere'er  their  kisses  burn. 
(Dear  lips  that  give  so  much  more  than  they  take, 
Close  be  they  pressed  to  mine  for  love's  sweet  sake.j 
I  thought  to  teach  you  life,  and  I  have  caught 
More  from  these  lips  than  all  the  world  has  taught. 
That  sweet,  sweet  lesson  let  me  learn  again ; 
I  thought  I  lived  and  you  were  dreaming  then. 
But  both  were  cold,  both  dreamed,  both  waked,  and 

now 

I  live  in  dreams  and  dream  of  life ;  and  thou 
Wilt  never  dream  again,  my  own,  «*y  love  ;        friJ>\ 
God  look  in  pity  on  us  from  above, 
Come  closer ;  pour  in  mine  those  dear,  dear  eyes, 
Now  warm  with  tender  light  of  morning  skies ; 
Forget  that  ever  rising  day  may  bring 
For  thee  one  black  plume  on  his  golden  wing ; 
Forget,  dear  love,  that  pain  or  grief  or  wrong, 
May  jar  one  chord  in  all  thy  life  of  song ; 
(Forget  that  dreams  like  ours  may  end  in  pain  ; 
Clasp  me  and  say,  I  love  thee,  once  again." 

"  Say  that  I  love  thee  !  must  the  joyous  earth, 
In  measured  tones  to  the  bright  sun  replying, 

Tell  of  the  love  that  in  her  heart  has  birth 
While  she  beneath  his  radiant  smile  is  lying  ? 

Is  not  each  blossom  eloquent  with  love  ? 

Each  budding  germ  on  her  warm  bosom  glowing, 


62  S  Y  B  E  L  L  E  . 

All  mutely  breathes  to  the  blue  heavens  above 
Of  love's  sweet  rapture  through  her  being  flowing. 

Thou  knowest  thy  smile  is  sunlight  on  my  heart ; 
Thou   seest   my   cheek  with   love-warm   blushes 
burning ; 

Thou  knowest  how  tears  into  mine  eyes  will  start 
For  very  joy,  when  thine  are  on  them  turning ; 

And  dost  thou  ask  me  yet  by  words  to  prove 

How  dear  thy  presence  is,  how  true  my  love  ? 

Say  that  I  love  thee  !     Yes,  the  vernal  sun, 

Earth's  glorious  lover  in  his  azure  heaven, 
Ne'er  blessed  the  world  he  deigns  to  smile  upon 

With  deeper  joy  than  thou  to  me  hast  given. 
Not  by  fond  words  of  flattering  tenderness, 

By  vows  that  lips  have  made  and  hearts  have 

broken  ; 
But  by  thy  spirit's  perfect  power  to  bless 

Through  words  of  life  and  love  thy  lips  have  spoken. 
Love  thee!     O,  love,  life  evermore  to  me 

Had  been  a  cold,  sad  sense  of  being,  lonely, 
And  lost  and  weary,  without  love  and  thee, 

Life  without  life,  a  drear  existence  only ; 
Now  warm  with  bliss  that  cannot  change  to  pain, 
And  light  with  light  that  grows  not  dark  again.') 

It  is  no  sin  to  love,  and  tell  thee  so ; 

Ours  is  no  passion  born  of  youthful  gladness, 
Flushing  at  once  to  summer's  fervid  glow, 

Dying  as  soon  by  its  own  burning  madness. 
Love  found  us  with  our  senses  all  awake  ;  — 

Thine  from  their  world  life,  mine  from  their  life 
seemine, 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  £3 

It  wove  round  us  no  brittle  chains  to  break, 

Or  wax-like  melt  beneath  the  day's  first  beaming. 

O  love,  our  love  can  no  more  die  in  us 

Than  God's  light  from  the  sun  in  mid-day  heaven 
("Though  I  might  see  no  more,  nor  clasp  thee  thus, 
Though  all  now  mine  to  other  arms  were  given, 

The  life  thou  gavest  me  and  the  love  I  give, 

Immortal  both,  in  each  must  ever  live."^) 

To  other  arms !     Sybelle,  canst  thou  divine 
Why  shrinks  thy  lover  from  the  clasp  of  thine  ? 
Why  at  thy  words,  through  nerve  and  pulse  and 

brain, 

Shot  the  keen  torture  of  some  deadly  pain  ? 
Why  the  warm  lips  grow  pale  and  cold  as  clay, 
And  cheek  and  brow  as  white  and  chill  as  they  ? 
Why  all  the  anguish  of  a  life-long  agony 
Seems  gathered  into  that  one  glance  for  thee, 
As  the  white  lips  are  on  thy  forehead  pressed, 
And  thou  one  instant  folded  to  his  breast, 
Then  left,  thyself  half  chilled,  and  pale  and  numb, 
With  the  wild  fears  that  o'er  thy  spirit  come  ! 
Aye ;  fold  those  cold  hands  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Press  them  to  your  still  heart  and  throbbing  brain, 
Rally  your  startled  senses  as  you  may, 
Go  out  into  the  morning  cold  and  gray ; 
The  black,  bare  earth  alone  will  meet  you  there, 
The  damp,  sad  pressure  of  the  autumn  air, 
And  heaven  with  all  its  stars  and  glory  gone 
And  low  with  lead-cold  storm  clouds  overdrawn. 
Alone,  alone  !    Your  pale  face  grows  more  pale, 
And  down  the  leaf-strewn  pathway  to  the  vale 


fi4  SY  BELLE. 

Your  steps  move  strangely  slow  ;  the  very  air 
Around  seems  heavy  with  the  woe  you  bear. 
A  dread  you  feel  and  yet  you  cannot  name, 
Creeps  slow,  and  dark  and  cold  through  all  your 

frame 
And  gathers  round   your  heart.     Where  now  the 

light 

And  glow  of  love  that  made  the  morn  so  bright  ? 
Dark  bend  the  clouds,  and  dark  along  its  bed 
The  stream,  its  sands  with  dead  leaves  overspread, 
Flows  mournfully ;  the  leafless  trees  bend  low 
In  silent  listening  to  your  words  of  woe. 

"A  cloud  through  which,  alas,  no  eye  can  see, 
Is  hiding  all  the  heaven's  sweet  light  from  me. 
I  knew,  I  felt  its  outline  faint  and  dim, 
Slow  darkening  up  the  far  horizon's  rim, 
Yet  shut  my  eyes  and  would  not  see  it  grow, 
And  would  not  see  the  lightnings  round  me  glow  — 
The  fierce,  bright  flashes,  and  the  gloom  that  came 
More  darkly  after  every  blinding  flame. 
I  might  have  known  —  alas,  too  well  I  knew 
Such  gloom  and  flame  from  happy  love  ne'er  grew. 
What  secret  power  these  elements  have  nursed, 
Or  when  or  how  the  fatal  storm  will  burst 
It  matters  not.     I  know  that  it  must  come ; 
I  felt  it  in  those  arms,  those  cold  lips,  dumb 
With  sorrow  that  they  dare  not  press  on  mine. 
O  love,  if  gall  be  mingled  in  this  wine, 
Both,  both  must  taste  its  bitterest  bitterness  ; 
Both  have  so  deeply  quaffed :    nor  thou  the  less, 
Xor  I,  long-thirsting  lips  have  eager  pressed, 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  65 

To  drain  the  bowl  so  brimming  and  so  blest. 

My  life,  my  love,  my  Raimond,  thou  hast  given 

All  my  proud  heart  could  ask  for  this  side  heaven  ! 

My  guide,  my  teacher ;  to  my  darkened  eyes 

Making  earth  bloom  a  glorious  paradise. 

I  dgrank  in  knowledge  from  thy  lips  as  floAvers 

In  thirsty  gardens  drink  the  summer  showers 

And  grow  by  them ;  and  I  grew  up  by  thee 

So  proud,  so  fearless  and  so  trustingly, 

Molding    my  very  being  into  thine 

Till  my  own  nature  seemed  no  more  as  mine, 

But  strong,  and  high,  and  noble  as  thine  own  ; 

And  thine  so  noble !  O  love,  I  had  grown 

Almost  to  worship  ere  I  dared  to  love ; 

So  high  thy  own  life  aims  —  so  far  above 

All  my  weak  fancy  dreamed.     In  very  shame 

I  blushed  that  I  had  even  thought  of  fame 

Before  thee.     Blank  and  aimless  until  then 

All  being  seemed.     It  cannot  be  again. 

Teacher  and  pupil,  each  in  each  we  grew 

And  each  from  each  a  new  existence  drew. 

Love  came  to  thee  as  knowledge  unto  me, 

Transforming  life.     How  free,  how  gloriously 

Thy  soul  came  forth  in  that  new  being's  dawn  ! 

Thy  form  such  beauty  and  such  strength  put  on, 

Such  consciousness  of  joy  in  life  as  lives 

Alone  where  love's  pure  inspiration  gives 

To  heart  and  soul  and  sense  and  being  all 

They  crave  of  bliss  that  fills  but  cannot  pall 

The  senses.  (  Thine,  love,  thine  and  mine  all  this  — 

Hearts,  lips,  and  eyes, and  arms, so  filled  with  bliss 

They  never  shall  grow  cold  again. )  Mine  own, 


(J6  SYBELLE. 

My  life,  thou  canst  not  leave  me  thus,  alone ! 

Alas,  not  mine  to  drown  these  rising  fears, 

The  weakness  and  the  blessedness  of  tears  ! 

If  honor  bids  thee  go  and  me  to  stay, 

I  must  look  in  those  eyes  and  trusting  say : 

Go,  love,  though  light  go  out  of  heaven  with  thee, 

Thou  canst  not  take  the  light  thou  gavest  me. 

Or  if  ambition  lure  thy  spirit  far, 

And  love  or  I  thine  upward  pathway  bar, 

I  could,  as  brave  as  thou,  that  love  lay  down, 

Nor  dim  by  one  weak  tear  thy  victor  crown. 

That  is  not  love  that  victim-like  would  bind 

Lqye  to  its  altar,  fettered,  shorn  and  blind.^ 

But  O,  not  this,  nor  this ;  my  soul  would  go 

In  widening  circles  farther  from  its  woe ! 

A  dark,  dark  thought  I  cannot  speak  for  pain, 

Lies  like  a  terror  on  my  heart  and  brain. 

Love  long  confessed,  and  soul  with  soul  as  one, 

Why  still  in  word  and  thought  the  future  shun  ? 

Why  call  such  life  as  this  a  dream,  and  pray 

God's  pity  on  us  both,  as  if  with  day 

Some  horror  came  to  blacken  all  our  bliss  ? 

Why  on  the  very  breath  that  gave  love's  kiss 

Came  warnings  of  dark  plumes, and  grief,  and  pain? 

Why  all  my  earnest  words  of  love  in  vain  ? 

In  vain !  alas,  even  as  I  sang  there  came 

A  shivering  chill  like  terror  through  that  frame. 

O  O 

I  watched  it  all  with  love's  most  jealous  eyes, 

iTrom  whitening  lips  to  whiter  forehead  rise ; 

I  felt  it  in  the  cold,  strong  energy 

Of  fingers  clasping  mine  unknowing  why ; 

And  that  last  glance  of  heart- wrung  hopelessness  — - 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  67 

0  Raimond,  were  it  mine  thy  life  to  bless, 
And  dying  I  could  bless  thee,  I  would  die 
Rather  than  see  again  that  agony. 

1  think  —  and  yet  I  will  not —  dare  not  —  no ! 
Far  from  this  brain  thou  maddening  phantom,  go, 
With  thy  proud  eyes,  and  heart  and  arms  as  cold 
As  are  thy  lands  and  piles  of  yellow  gold! 
What  if  thy  proffered  coins  were  piled  so  high 
Ambition  on  them  might  mount  to  the  sky? 
Two  strong,  true,  loving  hearts  before  them  rise 
Yet  higher,  above,  beyond  those  very  skies. 
Must-they  be  crushed,  life  stripped  of  all  its  charms, 
That  he,  a  skeleton  in  your  cold  arms, 

May  clink  your  gold,  and  call  that  wealth  and  fame 
That  brands  his  perjured  soul  with  guilty  shame  ? 
Black,  black  the  picture  grows!    I  see  it  there  ; 
Down  the  pale  shoulders  streams  the  long  black  hair, 
Black  all  the  garments,  and  the  cheek's  blank  white 
Gleams  ghastly  in  the  death-gift's  yellow  light  — 
That  heritage  that  binds  him  to  thy  doom 
And  throws  o'er  me  this  shadow  from  the  tomb  ; 
Black,  soulless  eyes,  yet  cruel,  cold  and  vain, 
Their  glance  of  triumph  burns  into  my  brain. 
It  shot  through  his  that  same,  same  baleful  glow, 
And  it  will  part  us  yet !    Alas,  I  know 
Too  well  his  haughty  spirit's  power  to  bend 
His  own  strong  will  to  gain  the  purposed  end  ; 
And  well  I  know  that  firm,  unshrinking  soul, 
Would  soar  through  flame  to  gain  its  wished-for  goal; 
Nor  love  nor  I  his  onward  course  could  bar 
More  than  the  clouds  the  pathway  of  a  star. 
Is  this  man's  love  ?  O  Raimond,  is  it  thine ! 


'68  SYBELLE. 

Can  gold  or  fame  so  far  our  love  outshine, 
That  thou,  betraying  all  my  holy  trust, 
Canst  bury  all  beneath  that  gilded  dust; 
Canst  call  its  dreary  gleam  thy  being's  light, 
And  cheat  thy  heart  of  life's  divinest  right  ? 
And  I  —  I  asked  thee  but  for  life,  not  this, 
O  love,  thou  more  than  life,  and  more  than  bliss ! 
To  have  the  draught  that  I  must  drink  or  die 
So  dashed  with  drops  of  blackest  agony  — 
Black !  all  is  black !  are  not  those  mocking  eyes 
Opening  upon  me  from  these  darkened  skies, 
Showing  the  trees  that  gave  their  summer  charms 
To  autumn's  gilding,  blighting,  blackening  arms? 
Proud  trees!  in  vain  your  meanings  through  the  air, 
You  paid  the  price  for  all  the  woe  you  bear! 
Why  stretch  your  anus  in  helpless  wailing  down 
To  the  poor  stream  who  holds  your  summer  crown 
Deep  in  her  bosom,  black  and  dead  and  cold  i 
Poor  little  stream !  your  sands  of  shining  gold 
Are  blackened  too,  by  once  bright  golden  leaves 
O'er  whose  dead  forms  your  troubled  bosom  heaves 
In  mournful  murmurings,  yet  ever  presses 
Closer  and  closer  in  its  chill  caresses, 
As  I  the  summer  hopes  that  floated  down 
Into  my  being  —  love's  most  regal  crown, 
Glowing  and  purple  with  the  life  drops  wrung 
From  the  great  heart  that  proudly  o'er  me  hung, 
Showering  its  wealth  upon  me,  as  the  trees 
Poured  theirs  on  thee  with  every  passing  breeze  ! 
O  love,  I  rave !    Such  wealth  of  love  and  light 
Could  never  die!    Are  not  the  sands  all  bright 
And  golden  yet  within  thee,  sighing  stream, 


S  Y  B  E  L  L  E.  flC) 

As  wlien  the  summer  poured  its  ardent  beam 
Into  thy  breast  1     The  blessed  rains  will  fall 
And  wash  away  this  dark,  death-seeming  pall, 
And  thou  wilt  bear  along  thy  glittering  sands 
Thy  own  sweet  woodland  song  to  other  lands  — 
A  song  so  wayward,  deep,  and  strange  and  wild, 
The  world  shall  bend  to  hear  the  forest  child, 
And  wonder  whence  such  music  came.     And  thou, 
Forgetting  half  the  gloom  that  shrouds  thee  now, 
Remembering  all  the  splendor  and  the  blaze 
Of  light  and  bloom  that  crowned  thy  forest  days, 
Wilt  pour  new  joy  upon  the  world  ;  thy  song 
Will  bless  all  hearts,  and  make  the  faltering  strong! 
f  Love  should  make  souls  like  pure,  life-gladdening 

streams, 

Xot  pools  all  blackened  o'er  with  boding  dreams, 
Silent,  and  dark,  and  dead,  and  poisoning  all 
On  whom  their  blighting  exhalations  fall.} 

0  lost  to  me,  yet  ever  loved  as  lost, 

1  can  but  bless  the  star  whose  rays  have  crossed 
My  darkened  path !    My  Raimond,  thou  shalt  know 
The  life  thou  gavest  will  outlive  the  woe 

Of  losing  thee,  though  that  go  down  to  death, 
And  claim  the  last  sigh  of  my  parting  breath! 
God  bless  thee,  love ;  and  be  His  strength  to  thee 
As  the  great  love  of  thy  true  heart  to  me, 
Ennobling  all  the  future.     We  must  part ; 
O  bitter  words  to  come  from  woman's  heart! 
Yet  bitterer  far  that  life-long,  dark  remorse 
Wrung  from  man's  soul  o'er  honor's  blackened  corse. 
Xo,  Raimond  !  if  that  call  thee  from  my  side 
And  olace  within  thine  arms  another  bride, 


70  SYBELLE. 

Still  go !     I  trust  thy  love  as  I  trust  heaven  ; 
Not  all  in  vain  the  lessons  thou  hast  given." 


I    Strong  hands  long  locked  in  fetters  sweet 
Unclasping  nevermore  to  meet ; 
Arms  trembling  with  their  last  cai-ess ; 
Pale  lips  that  nevermore  may  press 
The  lips  their  life  went  out  on ;  eyes 
All  blank  and  wild,  as  if  the  skies 
Had  lost  the  sun  at  noon,  and  night 
Dropped  black  upon  a  world  of  light ; 
Low,  faltering  words,  the  heart's  faint  knells 
This  is  the  sum  of  love's  farewells  l) 


The  world  has  gained  a  braver  heart, 

A  hand  more  bold  and  strong, 
A  soul  more  firm  to  battle  for 

The  right  against  the  wrong, 
Since  from  that  woodland  vale  came  forth 

The  hero  of  my  song ; 
Came  forth,  endowed  with  woman's  love, 

A  love  he  could  not  claim, 
For  one  who  long  in  plighted  faith 

Had  waited  for  his  name  — 
Whose  hand  the  golden  ladder  held 

Whereon  he  climbed  to  fame  ; 
Came  forth  with  such  a  blessing  pressed 

On  hand  and  lip  and  brow, 
As  consecrate  them  all  for  truth 


SYBELLE.  71 

By  love's  most  holy  vow  — 
A  blessing  hallowed  through  all  time, 

And  ever  fresh  as  now. 
He  cannot  raise  that  hand  for  wrong, 

"Whate'er  the  guerdon  be, 
Nor  falsely  speak  with  lips  that  hers 

Have  sealed  in  pui'ity; 
He  cannot  hold  within  that  brow 

A  thought  unworthy  thee  — 
Unworthy  thee,  beloved  Sybelle; 

Beloved  not  all  in  vain, 
Since  to  the  needy  world  he  came 

A  better  man  again, 
"With  more  of  faith  in  womankind  — 

Of  man's  success  less  vain ; 
A  better  man  for  having  had 

His  own  heart  depths  to  prove, 
To  find  though  blinded  passion  soar 

All  reason's  guards  above, 
It  cannot  touch  with  tainted  breath 

A  pure  and  perfect  love ; 
A  better  man  for  all  the  bliss, 

Perhaps  for  all  the  woe, 
That  maddening  passion  half  withheld, 

Half  given  in  tortures  slow, 
Had  mingled  in  the  goblet  rare 

Whose  depths  he  might  not  know. 
O  wondrous  love  !  not  woman's  cheek 

A  paler  hue  could  wear, 
Not  woman's  lip  in  agony 

Could  frame  so  wild  a  prayer, 


SYBELLE. 

As  wrung  his  soul  with  anguish  in 

That  parting  of  despair ! 
O  wondrous  love,  that  steadfast  still 

In  her  blue  eyes  could  burn, 
Bent  over  his,  as  sorrow  bends 

Above  a  burial  urn, 
Then  half-despairing,  turns,  alone, 

Life's  fearful  task  to  learn  ! 
Alone,  back  to  the  needy  world 

A  purer  man  he  came, 
With  holier  motives  to  redeem 

The  pledge  he  gave  to  fame  — 
Among  the  noblest  of  the  land 

To  write  the  noblest  name. 
Alone,  she  wanders  in  the  vale, 

Alone  beside  the  stream, 
Half-wondering  if  the  memories 

That  all  so  real  seem, 
Are  not  her  wild  imaginings 

In  some  bewildering  dream. 
She  holds  one  hand  upon  her  heart 

To  still  its  throbbing  pain, 
And  one  upon  her  brow  to  cool 

That  almost  frenzied  brain, 
And  murmurs  with  those  lips  so  pale  — 

"'Twere  sweet  to  dream  again." 
But  he  had  said  that  nevermore 

To  her  a  dream  would  come  ; 
And  must  the  brain  that  once  could  think, 

Grow  by  its  waking  numb  ? 
And  must  the  lips  that  once  could  sing, 

Forevermore  be  dumb  ? 


SYBELLE.  73 

No ;  she  would  sing  the  songs  she  wove 

From  fancies  long  ago, 
When  by  her  own  loved  stream  she  lay, 

To  watch  its  quiet  flow, 
And  crushed  the  roses  in  her  hands, 

And  only  dreamed  of  woe. 

"  All  the  day  long, 
With  a  ceaseless  song 
And  the  whole  night  through, 
Down  its  path  of  blue, 
A  cascade  falls  over  rocky  walls, 
In  a  far  off  wood  where  the  giant  trees 
Wrestle  with  storms  or  the  passing  breeze, 
Where  never  a  banner  has  floated  high, 
Or  a  glittering  spire  looked  up  to  the  sky, 
Where  the  sunlight  softly  flickers  down 
Through  the  summers  green  and  the  autumns  brown, 
And  the  cold  bright  light  of  the  winter  night, 
And  the  tender  sheen  of  the  springtime  green, 
In  changeful  beauty  glow  and  fall 
Where  the  cascade  sings  o'er  its  rocky  Avail. 

"  But  skies  and  trees, 
And  the  changeful  breeze 
Like  the  rocks  are  chill, 
As  the  cascade  still 

Pours  the  full  tide  of  her  passionate  song, 
Whether  of  happiness,  grief,  or  wrong, 
Into  her  own  cold  breast  of  stone  ; 
And  the  murmurs  low,  and  the  saddening  moan, 
4 


74  STBELLE. 

That  echo  back  from  that  dark  abyss 

The  cry  of  the  spirit's  loneliness, 

Are  measured  over  with  weary  pain, 

And  poured  on  her  rocky  heart  again, 

While  a  misty  cloud,  like  a  cold  white  shroud, 

Is  gathered  close  o'er  her  troubled  breast, 

To  hide  the  passions  that  will  not  rest. 

"  A  cascade  lone, 

With  its  wall  of  stone, 

Is  the  ceaseless  strife 

Of  my  hidden  life, 

And  coldly  the  stream  of  my  being  falls 
Over  life's  chilled  and  flinty  walls, 
And  the  moan  of  my  spirit's  loneliness 
Comes  ever  up  from  the  dark  abyss; 
I  press  it  down  with  a  cry  of  pain, 
But  it  springs  to  my  sealdd  lips  again, 
And  again  is  dashed  to  the  heart  below 
Where  the  wild  and  passionate  waters  flow, 
f  And  I  draw  a  cloud,  like  a  cold  white  shroud, 
Between  the  world  and  my  weary  breast, 
And  long  for  a  night  of  eternal  rest." 

"  Wild  November  winds  are  sighing, 

Mournful,  wailing  winds  of  woe, 
Sad  the  darkened  stream  replying 

Murmurs  through  the  valley  low ; 
Mourning  over  all  the  splendor 

Lost  amid  that  autumn  gloom, 
Mourning  for  the  blossoms  tender 

Dead  on  autumn's  icy  tomb. 


SYBELLE.  75 

Pale  they  saw  the  rose  leaves  falling 
Drenched  with  sorrow's  chilling  rain, 

Faint  they  heard  the  willow  calling 
For  her  summer  love  in  vain. 

"See  they  not  the  rose-heart  glowing, 
*     Ruby-like  amid  the  frost, 
Life  more  strong  within  her  growing 

Than  in  all  the  petals  lost  ? 
See  they  not  the  willow  keeping 

Loving  watch  the  stream  above, 
All  her  frame,  for  all  her  weeping, 

Golden  with  her  summer  love  ? 
Winds  of  autumn  cease  your  sighing, 

Cease  your  murmuring  mournful  river, 
Truth  and  beauty  are  not  dying, 

Love  in  them  shall  live  forever." 

O  there  be  flowers  all  fair  and  frail 
That  shrink  not  from  the  autumn  gale, 
Full  of  the  blissful  summer  past 
They  smile  amid  the  wintry  blast, 
And  smiling  die,  as  if  still  dreaming 
Of  love's  warm  sunlight  o'er  them  beaming; 
No  faded  leaves  are  falling  low, 
N"o  blight  lies  on  their  summer  glow, 
All  fragrant  breaks  their  parting  breath 
In  love's  sweet  triumph  over  death. 
And  thus,  with  trust  undimmed  by  tears, 
Sybelle  waits  through  the  passing  years, 
Till  long  that  well  beloved  name 
Has  graced  the  honored  lists  of  fame. 


76  SY  BELLE. 

Unscathed  through  trial's  fieriest  hour, 
Untainted  by  temptation's  power, 
Worthy  of  all  her  worship  past, 
And  all  her  love,  she  sees  at  last, 
A  nation's  grateful  homage  done 
To  him,  her  purest,  proudest  one. 
Once  more  she  stands  the  stream  beside, 
At  twilight  hour,  in  maiden  pride, 
With  all  that  tender  bloom  that  speaks 
Of  tender  memories  on  her  cheeks, 
And  that  dark  purple  flame  that  lies 
So  constant  now  within  her  eyes, 
More  darkly  glowing,  while  her  song 
Floats  calm  and  clear  the  vale  along  : 

"Life  is  a  welcome  gift  to  those  who  stand 
Strong-armed  and  free  in  youth's  bright  morning 

land, 

When  the  dark  clouds  of  error's  night  are  gone, 
With  fainter  mists  that  dimmed  the  rising  dawn, 
And  fair  o'er  all,  the  sun's  unclouded  ray, 
Pours  the  warm  light  of  truth's  eternal  day. 

"  A  welcome  gift  to  me,  O  life,  art  thou, 
Crowning  all  nature  and  my  being  now 
With  thy  most  perfect  fulness.     All  I  sought, 
Or  craved,  or  dreamed  of  in  my  wildest  thought, 
Thou  gi vest  —  light  and  love  and  truth,  and  power 
Through  them  to  ask  for  fame  —  ambition's  dower. 

("It  were  enough  to  live  but  once  to  say, 
I  love !  but  once  in  all  life's  pilgrim  way 
That  Mecca  shrine  to  touch ;  but  once  to  know 
How  bright  in  human  hearts  love's  flame  may  glow. 


SYBELLE.  77 

Once  and  forever— here,  O  Love,  thy  bliss, 
That  what  hath  been  but  once,  forever  isj^/ 

"  Forever  thus  with  thee,  my  guiding  star,  • 

Whose  rays  fall  on  and  bless  me  from  afar, 
Undimmed  it  glows  ;  and  purer  that  the  years 
Watctiing  thy  course  to  higher,  nobler  spheres, 
Witness  no  faltering,  no  eclipses  there, 
To  dim  the  promise  of  thy  dawning  fair. 

"  I  were  unworthy  of  thy  love  and  trust, 

Unworthy  of  myself,  if  in  the  dust 

I  could  bow  down  with  weak  and  wailing  cries, 

Making  that  life  a  sinful  sacrifice 

That  heaven  and  thou  have  blessed  with  light  and 

truth, 
So  craved  and  prayed  for  in  my  darkened  youth. 

"Love  is  the  dawn  of  truth  unto  the  soul  — 

Life's  morn,  and  noon,  and.. night — its  perfect  whole! 

I  knew  thy  dawn,  thy  glorious  noon,  O  Love, 

And  thi'ough  thy  night  by  starry  memories  prove 

That  thou  art  life  !    To  thy  undying  flame, 

I  wake  in  hope  my  song  for  name  and  fame!"^ 


ADELAIDE 


ADELAIDE. 


PART  I. 

Beloved  and  bright,  though  to  the  world  unknown 
As  the  small  spring  that  from  the  hillside  breaks, 
Glad  in  the  music  of  its  childish  tone, 

And  in  the  life  its  purity  awakes, 
Now  joyous  in  the  April  sunlight  dancing, 
Now  on  the  stars,  now  on  the  blossoms  glancing, 
Such  was  the  childhood  of  a  gentle  maid, 
Such  were  the  infant  years  of  Adelaide. 

Blest  childhood !  with  thy  smiles  and  artless  mirth 

Thou  crownest  life's  dark  years  with  hope  and  joy ; 
Thou  diamond  pure  in  this  dark  mine  of  earth 
Where  scarce  a  gem  is  free  from  sin's  alloy ! 
Bright  as  the  ray  that  shines  from  heaven  upon  thee 
Ere  earthly  pleasure  to  her  arms  hath  won  thee, 
Such  be  thy  life,  thou  angel  just  from  heaven, 
Thou  cherub  to  a  mortal's  guidance  given ! 

Fair  as  the  opening  rose  at  dewy  morn 

That  bloomed  in  beauty  by  her  cottage  doo  r, 
4* 


82  ADELAIDE. 

So  fair  was  Adelaide ;  and  she  was  born, 

When  radiant  June  its  greenest  foliage  wore ; 
When  leaves  on  leaves  among  the  vines  were  wreath 
ing, 

And  summer  flowers  their  richest  fragrance  breathing, 
With  perfume  filled  the  rustic  cot  that  stood 
Like  a  lone  hermit  in  the  sheltering  wood. 

Alone  it  stood ;  yet  in  its  loneliness 

A  refuge  was  it  for  three  loving  hearts  ; 
To  them  a  shield  from  sorrow  and  distress, 
Far  from  capricious  fortune's  luring  arts. 
There  lived  they  to  the  distant  world  as  strangers, 
There  shared  they  each  the  other's  toils  and  dan 
gers, — 

The  high-souled  Ellis,  Mary  his  young  bride, 
And  Ruth,  his  sister  dear,  in  friendship  tried. 

His  fortune  lost  by  trust  too  oft  betrayed, 

By  bitter  wrongs  his  high  ambition  checked, 
Here  found  he  in  the  tranquil  forest  shade 

A  joy  that  prosperous  fortune  oft  has  wrecked  — 
The  joy  of  life ;  the  gladness  too  of  knowing 
What  love  for  him  in  other  hearts  was  glowing. 
The  joy  of  life!  now  would  he  scorn  to  claim 
That  glittering  toy,  the  tinsel  wreath  of  fame. 

Each  day  the  love  that  solitude  endears 
He  saw  in  Mary's  rapture-beaming  smile, 

And  Ruth,  though  yet  almost  a  child  in  years, 
Seemed  like  an  anijel  destined  to  beguile 

O  O 

From  his  proud  heart  each  vain  and  wild  emotion, 
And  soothe  his  spirit  by  her  true  devotion ; 


ADELAIDE.  83 

But  now,  a  purer,  holier  joy  than  this, 
Was  Adelaide,  the  crown  of  all  their  bliss. 

Thrice  hallowed,  loved  and  helpless  infancy ! 

Blessed  in  thy  helplessness,  thy  strong  defence ; 
Blessed  in  the  tenderness  that  springs  for  thee, 

BJessed  in  thy  beauty  and  thine  innocence ! 
How  wert  thou  welcomed,  of  all  joys  the  dearest, 
Thou  light  that  still  the  humblest  cottage  cheerest; 
For  thee  burned  woman's  love  with  purer  flame, 
And  man  forgot  ambition,  wealth  and  fame. 

Yes  ;  all  ambition  but  the  wish  to  bless; 

All  fame  but  that  which  heaven  itself  ordained  — • 
The  heart's  own  praise  ;  all  wealth  but  happiness, 

And  the  dear  treasures  his  own  cot  contained. 
What  festal  light  o'er  scenes  of  splendor  streaming, 
What  dazzling  gems  on  brows  of  beauty  beaming, 
Could  match  the  sunlight  breaking  o'er  her  rest 
Who  slept  with  that  sweet  babe  upon  her  breast  ? 

Through  wreathing  vines  and  forest  branches  green 
The  rosy  beams  of  summer  morning  smiled, 

How  brightly  fell  they  on  that  cottage  scene  — 
The  youthful  mother  and  her  first-born  child ! 

How  fair  that  cheek  the  snowy  pillow  pressing, 

How  soft  those  arms  her  infant's  form  caressing; 

The  father's  heart  throbbed  with  sweet  hopes  and 
fears, 

And  Ruth's  dark  eyes  were  filled  with  happy  tears. 

Affection  true  and  holiest  love  were  there, 
It  sealed  their  lips  as  with  a  mystic  charm  ; 


84  ADELAIDE. 

O  few  and  brief  such  raptured  moments  are 

When  words  would  fill  the  bosom  with  alarm ; 
When  silent  bliss  from  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
And  cheeks  and  eyes  such  speechless  love  revealing. 
Tears,  tears  will  flow,  for  nature  claims  them  then, 
From  woman's  eyes  and  from  the  hearts  of  men. 

And  they  were  blessed,  for  not  more  lovely  grew 

The  fairest  bud  on  summer's  blooming  brow, 
By  sunshine  wanned  and  nursed  with  fragrant  dew, 

Than  Adelaide,  their  bud  of  promise  now. 
Life's  opening  rose  in  artless  beauty  smiling, 
Their  light  of  life,  now  all  their  griefs  beguiling ; 
She  was  their  joy  when  daily  toils  were  done, 
She  was  their  starlight  and  their  morning  sun. 

Soon  fled  those  brief  and  blissful  summer  hours, 

And  faster  sped  the  autumn  months  away ; 
Stern  winter  passed,  and  spring's  reviving  showers 

Fell  on  the  tender  leaves  and  blossoms  gay. 
Again  the  summer  sunshine  trembled  lightly, 
Where  through  the  leaves  the  streamlet  glistened 

brightly; 

Sweet  June,  the  first  of  summer's  dazzling  train, 
Came  back  to  eaith  with  all  her  charms  again. 

O  radiant  June,  thou  month  of  bloom  and  balm, 
Thrice  welcome  art  thou  to  our  northern  clime ! 

What  deep  repose  pervades  the  forest  calm 

When   spring's   perfection  joins    with    summer's 


prime 


Morn  breaks  upon  a  world  of  dewy  splendor, 
And  night  falls  gently  o'er  the  twilight  tender, 


ADELAIDE.  85 

Soft  zephyrs  fan  the  languid  brow  of  noon, 
And  beauty  sleeps  amid  the  woods  of  June. 

Thus  in  still  beauty  by  the  placid  stream 

The  oak,  the  willow  and  the  aspen  stood  ; 
The  rich  wheat  ripened  in  the  golden  beam, 

While,  like  a  strongly  banded  brotherhood, 
Line  after  line  in  emerald  armor  shining, 
With  lance  and  streamer  to  the  earth  inclining, 
Stood  the  green  corn ;  yet  all  invisibly 
'  T was  rising  upward,  upward  toward  the  sky. 

Oft  sheltered  from  the  noontide's  ardent  ray 

Would  Ellis  thankful  o'er  the  landscape  gaze  ; 
Along  the  verdant  slopes  spread  far  away 

Stretched  the  soft  outline  of  the  summer  haze. 
There  the  bright  river  in  the  distance  fading, 
Here  the  tall  oaks  his  lowly  cottage  shading, 
And  those  rich  fields,  by  his  own  toil  subdued, 
All  cheered  and  strengthened  him  in  solitude. 

'  Twas  thus  with  Mary's  fair  hand  clasped  in  his, 
He  stood  beneath  the  oak's  embowering  shade, 

The  smiles  that  spring  from  conscious  happiness, 
And  mutual  love,  upon  their  features  played. 

When  music,  clear  as  from  the  deep  sky  falling, 

Came  to  their  hearts,  their  own  bright  youth  re 
calling, 

'Twas  Ruth's  sweet  voice  that  through  the  green 
wood  rung 

While  thus  to  Adelaide  she  playful  sung: 


85  ADELAIDE. 

Child  of  the  dark  eyes 
And  beautiful  brow, 

Bud  of  the  wilderness, 
Why  bloomest  thou  ? 

For  joy  in  thy  sorrow, 
For  light  in  thy  gloom, 

For  life  and  for  beauty, 
Thus  do  I  bloom. 

Life  is  a  moment, 
And  joy  ends  in  fear, 

Bud  of  the  wilderness, 
Why  art  thou  here  ? 

Emblem  of  Heaven 
Its  truth  and  its  love, 

I  show  thee  the  beauty 
Of  angels  above. 

Blest  be  thy  beauty, 

And  hallowed  thy  birth, 

Bud  of  the  wilderness, 
Welcome  to  earth ! 


ADELAIDE 


PART  II. 

How  swiftly  pass  the  bright  meridian  hours 

That  measure  manhood's  years  of  ardent  prime, 
How  few  at  noon  will  stoop  to  note  the  flowers 

That  charmed  them  in  the  balmy  morning  time. 
Still  in  the  shade  the  blossom  blooms  as  sweetly, 
Matures  and  strengthens  as  the  years  pass  fleetly, 
And  when  the  proud  one  droops  in  weariness, 
Its  love  shall  cheer  him  and  its  beauty  bless. 

Thus  bloomed  the  gentle  Adelaide  ;  Avhile  years 

Brought  added  cares  to  Ellis'  thoughtful  brow, 
And  Mary  watched  with  love's  prophetic  fears 
On  Ruth's  fair  cheek  the  hectic  beauty  glow. 
N^or  watched  alone ;  for  other  eyes  were  reading 
That  fatal  page  ;  another  heart  was  pleading 
That  heaven  in  pity  might  avert  the  doom 
And  save  its  idol  from  an  early  tomb. 

The  young,  proud  Edmond,  who  for  her  sweet  love 
Forsook  the  world,  forgot  his  hopes  of  fame, 


gg  ADELAIDE. 

Nor  knew  nor  cared  to  know  a  joy  above 

Her  humbler  lot ;  and  oh  to  hear  his  name 
From  such  pure  lips,  to  see  her  dark  eves  beaming 
With  love  so  true,  so  angel-like  in  seeming, 
Was  more  than  life  to  him  —  'twas  his  life's  light, 
Without  whose  presence  all  was  death  and  night. 

O  it  is  beautiful,  yet  sad,  to  see 

How  man's  proud  strength  in  gentleness  can  bend, 
How  it  can  cling  with  fond  idolatry 

To  woman's  form,  and  with  her  being  blend 
Its  life-long  hopes ;  how,  on  her  love  relying, 
He  braves  all  dangers ;  but  when  she  is  dying, 
He  powerless  falls,  or,  like  the  blighted  oak, 
Defies  the  storm  and  dares  the  lightning's  stroke. 

So  Edmond  fell,  when  from  his  clasping  arms 

His  promised  bride,  his  gentle  Ruth  was  torn  ; 
So  Ellis  stood,  when  o'er  her  pallid  charms 

He  saw  in  grief  his  stricken  Mary  mourn. 
From  the  sweet  dream  of  love  and  hope  awaking, 
The  lover  raved,  his  weary  heart  was  breaking ; 
While  the  calm  brother,  pale  and  tearless  by, 
Checked  his  own  grief  to  soothe  his  Mary's  sigh. 

And  Adelaide,  the  gentle,  loving  one, 

The  watchful  angel  of  the  household  band, 
Forever  present  with  her  cheerful  tone, 

Her  words  of  love,  her  ministering  hand, 
How  did  she  with  strong  purpose  check  the  gushing 
Of  tears  that  ever  to  her  eyes  were  rushing, 
How  did  she  strive  with  woman's  tenderness 
The  maniac  lover's  hapless  lot  to  bless. 


ADELAIDE.  89 

Death  changes  not  the  dying  only ;  no 

The  living  too  are  molded  by  his  power, 
As  doth  the  fruit  in  full  perfection  grow 

Above  the  dust  where  sleeps  the  withered  flower. 
So  in  the  maiden's  heart  new  strength  was  springing, 
New  thoughts  were  there,  a  holier  purpose  bringing, 
At  once  from  her  the  bloom  of  life  was  gone, 
At  once  the  destiny  of  woman  won. 

She  felt  what  hearts  like  hers  but  once  can  feel  — 
That  she  had  loved !  With  what  a  mad'ning  pain 

Did  that  dread  truth  upon   her  spirit  steal ! 
How  did  she  strive  to  banish  it  in  vain ! 

With  every  thought  of  girlhood's  hours  of  gladness 

Was  linked  his  name ;  and  though  it  now  were  mad 
ness, 

Though  hope  was  dead,  and  reason's  sun  was  set, 

True  to  her  destiny  she  loved  him  yet. 

But  oh,  with  such  a  chastened,  fearful  love 

As  seldom  girlhood's  guileless  heart  has  known; 
She  would  not  wrong  the  sainted  one  above, 
To  wish  one  thought,  one  smile,  one  tone, 
Of  all  the  blissful  past  to  her  were  given, 
Or  could  be  hers ;  not  for  her  hopes  of  heaven 
Would  she  to  mortal  eyes  the  love  unveil, 
That  preyed  upon  her  heart,  that  made  her  young 
cheek  pale. 

It  was  enough  that  through  the  weary  years 
His  blighted  spirit  might  be  doomed  to  live, 

Her  voice  could  cheer,  her  presence  calm  his  fears, 
Or  to  his  life  one  gleam  of  pleasure  give. 


90  ADELAIDE. 

It  was  enough  amid  that  night  of  sorrow, 
One  ray  of  light,  one  trembling  hope  to  borrow 
From  his  sad  smile,  when  wandering  by  her  side, 
He  talked  of  Ruth,  and  called  her  his  lost  bride. 

He  told  her  that  when  years  of  grief  were  spent, 

And  he  had  wandered  many  a  weary  way, 
When  his  lithe  form  with  feeble  age  was  bent, 

And  his  dark  locks  were  sprinkled  o'er  with  gray, 
Then  should  he  find  her,  just  as  she  had  vanished, 
When  light  and  beauty  from  his  life  were  banished  ; 
And  she  who  loved  him  with  such  holy  truth 
Could  bring  him  back  to  beauty,  strength  and  youth. 

He  was  a  gentle  maniac,  and  his  eye 

Had  more  of  sadness  than  of  reason  lost ; 
As  if  the  star  that  lights  the  morning  sky 

By  dark'ning  clouds  and  sudden  storms  were  cross 
ed. 

Still  shines  the  star,  and  though  so  dimly  beaming, 
One  watchful  eye  still  marks  its  fitful  gleaming, 
One  heart  yet  hopes,  when  storms  have  passed  away, 
Its  light  shall  dawn  upon  a  happier  day. 

That  happier  day !    When  shall  its  dawning  be  I 
Alas,  the  clouds  are  threatening  deeper  gloom ; 
And  Adelaide,  thy  star  of  destiny 

In  dark  eclipse  seems  hovering  o'er  the  tomb. 
By  the  low  couch,  in  prayerful  sorrow  bending, 
Despair  and  hope  are  in  thy  bosom  blending ; 
Hope  for  the  spirit  feebly  struggling  there, 
Hope  for  the  mind,  but  for  the  life  despair  ! 


ADELAIDE.  91 

O  patient  watcher,  thy  fair  brow  is  pale, 

Thy  native  rose  blooms  on  thy  cheek  no  more. 
A  year  has  passed,  and  now  the  autumn  gale 

Sweeps  with  sad  wail  the  cheerless  landscape  o'er 
All  nature  dies,  and  lo,  before  thee  lying, 
The  one  thou  lovest  all  too  well  seems  dying. 
No  c^oud  of  mental  gloom,  no  madness  now, 
Dims  his  clear  eye  or  darkens  his  pale  brow. 

And  he  is  looking  up  to  thee ;  his  hand 

Clasps  thine ;  he  faintly  murmurs,  "  Adelaide." 

Dear  is  that  voice  to  thee  as  breezes  bland 
Unto  thy  emblem  rose  of  June,  sweet  maid ! 

Bend  low ;  the  rose  bends  when  the  breeze  is  singing . 

Bend  low ;  the  rose  bloom  to  thy  cheek  is  springing. 

O  child  of  hope !  thy  fervent  prayer  is  heard ; 

'  Tis  answered  by  that  softly  murmured  word : 

Another  June  with  its  blue,  cloudless  skies, 

Its  shadowy  forests  and  its  world  of  bloom, 
Its  sparkling  stream  that  now  in  sunshine  lies, 

And  now  is  lost  amid  the  greenwood  gloom  — 
Another  June,  and  Edmond's  cheek  is  glowing 
With  health's  warm  hue  ;  through  azure    channels 

flowing, 

The  rich  blood  tints  the  lately  pallid  brow, 
So  dark  with  sorrow  once — the  throne  of  reason  now. 

And  there  is  music  by  the  stream  once  more  — 
A  sound  of  song  upon  the  breezes  flung ; 

Not  the  soft  notes  of  Ruth's  sweet  voice  of  yore 
When  to  the  infant  Adelaide  she  sung. 


92  ADELAIDE. 

But  manlier  tones  with  deeper  cadence  thrilling, 
And  the  fair  listener's  eyes  with  radiance  filling. 
Tis  Edmond  sings,  and  Adelaide  is  near, 
Nor  lists  she  now  with  thoughtless  childhood's  ear. 

The  ocean  wanderer  loves  the  star 

That  guides  him  to  his  home  ; 
Though  oft  he  views  the  meteor  lights 
Or  on  the  billow's  crested  heights 

Admires  the  sparkling  foam, 
He  heeds  them  not,  but  turns  away, 
And  heavenward  looks  so  wearily, 
To  where  the  only  light  he  loves 
Beams  o'er  his  path  so  cheerily. 

The  traveler  'mid  the  desert  sands 

The  green  oasis  sees, 
And  what  though  gems  from  every  mine 
In  tempting  radiance  round  him  shine, 
More  dear  to  him  the  breeze 
That  marks  the  fluttering  palm  tree  nigh, 

Beneath  whose  shade  untiringly 
The  fountain  springs,  and  warbling  birds 
Sing  to  his  heart  inspiringly. 

A  wanderer  I  on  life's  dark  sea, 

A  traveler  'mid  its  sands ; 
The  star  I  loved  has  set  in  gloom, 
And  where  I  saw  the  oasis  bloom 

A  mocking  mirage  stands. 
I  cannot  love  that  darkened  sky, 
The  desert  winds  blow  chillingly, 


ADELAIDE.  93 

And  life  bereft  of  love  might  turn 
And  welcome  death  most  willingly. 

Yet  from  that  dreary  ruined  past, 

My  Adelaide,  to  thee, 
To  thee,  beloved  from  early  years, 
To  thee,  whose  smile  my  spirit  cheers, 

I  turn  for  sympathy. 
No  wealth  or  power  I  offer  thee, 

To  tempt  thy  heart  beguilingly ; 
I  only  ask  that  for  my  love 
.  Thou'lt  look  upon  me  smilingly. 

I  cannot  say  that  sad  regrets 

Will  never  cloud  my  brow, 
But  while  thy  voice  can  charm  my  ear, 
And  while  thy  loving  eyes  are  near 

To  smile  on  me  as  now, 
How  can  I  choose  but  bless  the  day, 

When  wildly  and  despairingly, 

I  looked  on  death,  and,  but  for  thee, 

Had  left  the  world  uncaringly? 

For  thou  hast  won  me  back  to  life, 

To  life,  to  love  and  thee ; 
My  Adelaide,  beloved  and  blest, 
To  thee  the  wanderer  turns  for  rest, 

For  love  and  constancy. 
No  fame  or  rank  I  offer  thee 

To  tempt  thy  heart  beguilingly, 
I  only  ask  that  for  my  love 

Thou'lt  look  upon  me  smilingly. 


94  ADELAIDE. 

Her  eyes  are  raised,  their  light  has  met  his  own  ; 

To  him  their  tearful  lustre  far  outspeaks 
The  loved  and  gentle  music  of  her  tone, 

Or  the  deep  tints  that  stain  her  glowing  cheeks. 
It  is  enough,  the  blush  and  tear  are  telling 
All  the  fond  hopes  within  her  bosom  swelling ; 
Enough  —  her  long-tried  love  is  well  repaid, 
The  tale  is  told ;  farewell  sweet  ADELAIDE. 


MARGUERITE. 


You  wonder  why  I  sing  no  more, 

.  But  coldly  at  your  feet 
Stand  gazing  up  into  your  eyes, 
With  something  like  a  strange  surprise, 
And  make  no  flattering,  sweet  replies, 
When  you  are  speaking,  Marguerite. 

You  love  my  simple  rhymes,  you  say, 

And  urge  me  to  repeat 
The  boyj^h  tale  I  used  to  tell, 
When  wandering  in  the  hazel  dell, 
Where  soft  the  summer  twilight  fell, 

When  we  were  children,  Marguerite. 

Alas,  we  are  not  children  now, 

And  trust  me,  'tis  not  meet 
That  I,  an  humble  country  swain, 
By  rustic  rhymes  should  hope  to  gain 
What  nobler  bards  have  sought  in  vain  — 

One  grateful  smile  from  Marguerite. 

I've  watched  you  when  their  tender  strains, 
With  flattery's  incense  sweet, 


96 


MARGUERITE. 


Might  well  have  brought  each  latent  grace 
That  in  a  maiden's  soul  hath  place, 
To  smiles  and  blushes  on  her  face, 

You  did  not  hear  them,  Marguerite. 

Your  broAv  was  like  the  marble  cold, 
And  when  they  turned  to  meet 

The  guerdon  of  your  gentle  smile, 

You  seemed  as  lost  as  if  the  while 

In  some  far  off  enchanted  isle 

You  had  been  dreaming,  Marguerite. 

"When  such  have  failed,  what  hope  have  I, 

The  lowliest  at  your  feet, 
To  win  one  glance  from  your  dark  eye, 
To  wake  within  your  breast  one  sigh, 
Or  on  your  lips  one  kind  reply 

To  my  poor  song,  proud  Marguerite  ? 

You  are  no  more  the  joyous  child 

Who  in  life's  spring-tiine  sweet, 
Could  roam  delighted  by  my  side, 
With  no  high  dreams  of  wealth  and  pride, 
Or  such  proud  scorn  as  can  divide 

The  loved  and  loving,  Marguerite. 

But  calm  beyond  the  charmed  line 
Where  child  and  woman  meet, 

With  pride  enough  on  lip  and  brow 

To  make  a  king  in  homage  bow, 

In  all  your  glorious  beauty  now, 
I  see  you  standing,  Marguerite 


MARGUERITE.  97 

I  would  not  from  your  worshiped  eyes 

The  cold  indifference  meet, 
That  chills  the  fire  on  passion's  tongue, 
Checks  lovers'  songs  ere  they  be  sung, 
And  sends  your  devotees  heart-wrung 

From  your  proud  presence,  Marguerite. 

I  hide  within  my  heart  of  hearts 

That  dream  so  pure  and  sweet, 
The  boyish  love  of  life's  young  morn 
Shall  never  meet  yo\ir  cruel  scorn, 
It  dk?s  as  silent  as  'twas  born,  — 

Why  are  you  weeping,  Marguerite  ? 

Can  tears  wash  out  the  cold  disdain 

With  which  you  loved  to  greet 
The  pleading  eyes  to  yours  upturned  ? 
And  has  your  haughty  spirit  learned 
How  deep  their  fires  of  passion  burned 

By  your  own  tortures,  Marguerite  ? 

O  blessed  tears!  my  boyhood's  dream! 

In  maiden  beauty  sweet, 
Down  from  your  cold  and  distant  throne, 
With  love  long  kept  for  me  alone, 
Into  my  arms,  my  own,  my  own ! 

Those  tears  have  brought  you,  Marguerite  ! 
6 


LILLIAN  GRAY. 


By  yon  low  grave  where  Lillian  sleeps, 
And  where  the  drooping  willow  Aveeps, 

The  wild  birds  love  to  stay ; 
They  meet  around  her  in  the  night, 
They  sing  of  her  at  morning  light, 

I  hear  them  all  the  day ; 
But  O  it  seems  a  weary  song 
To  hear  them  singing  all  day  long, 

We  monrn  for  Lillian  Gray. 

Within  that  grave  my  Lillian  sleeps, 
Above  her  head  the  willow  weeps, 

She  has  no  sculptured  stone ; 
But  day  by  day  an  artist  old, 
Is  graving  with  his  fingers  cold, 

My  heart,  to  marble  grown  ; 
And  all  the  name  he  traces  there 
From  dewy  morn  to  evening  fair, 

Is,  Lillian  Gray,  alone. 


LILLIAN  GRAY.  99 

Beneath  the  tree  that  o'er  her  weeps 
I'll  lay  me  where  my  Lillian  sleeps, 

To  guard  her  while  I  may ; 
For  sterner  seemed  that  form  of  fear 
That  traced  the  name  of  Lillian  dear 

Upon  my  heart  to-day. 
I'm  dying,  and  the  wild  birds  sing 
Above  the  monument  I  bring, 

To  thee,  my  Lillian  Gray. 


AMY  DEAN. 


With  lingering  steps  day  after  day 
I've  passed  your  cottage  garden  gay ; 
I've  watched  the  blossoms  of  your  care 
So  sweetly  nursed  and  tended  there, 
Your  roses  in  their  summer  glow, 
Your  lily  bells  like  perfumed  snow, 
Your  poppies  flaunting  in  their  pride 
The  daisy's  modest  bloom  beside, 
The  violets  in  their  green  retreat, 
Sweetwilliams  gay,  and  pinks  more  sweet, 
Yet  ne'er  a  lovelier  blossom  seen 
Then  your  own  self,  sweet  Amy  Dean. 

Beside  your  cheek  the  roses  fade, 
The  saintly  lilies  droop  in  shade, 
When  near  them  your  white  brow  is  bent 
So  pure  in  its  serene  content ; 
The  pinks  where  late  the  wild  bee  sips 
Have  no  carnation  like  your  lips, 
They  bend  before  such  rivals  sweet, 
And  pour  their  fragrance  round  your  feet. 


AMY   DEAN. 

The  violets  with  their  eyes  of  blue 
Look  up  most  sister-like  to  you, 
Yet  bolder  in  their  coverts  green 
Than  your  own  self,  sweet  Amy  Dean. 

Prim  in  their  Puritanic  ways 
The  worshiping  sweetwilliams  gaze, 
With  all  your  bloom,  but  not  your  grace, 
Up  to  the  heaven  of  your  face. 
The  poppies  bow  their  heads  of  pride 
To  touch  your  garments  as  you  glide 
So  lightly  down  the  garden  aisles 
To  meet  the  daisies'  morning  smiles. 
All  flushed  with  pleasure,  like  that  flower, 
I've  watched  your  coming  many  a  hour, 
And,  trembling,  wished  my  lips  had  been 
The  leaves  you  kissed,  sweet  Amy  Dean. 

You  gave  me  once,  with  timid  grace, 
And  blushes  mantling  o'er  your  face, 
A  rose  bud  pale ;  I  begged  the  gem 
For  it  had  touched  your  garment's  hem ; 
I  thought  it  then  a  Croesus'  store  ; 
Now,  miser-like,  I  ask  for  more. 
Not  for  your  daisies  gemmed  with  dew, 
Your  lily  bells,  or  violets  blue, 
Sweetwilliams  prim,  or  poppies  gay, 
Or  perfumed  pinks  that  crowd  your  way  ; 
I  ask  but  one,  the  garden's  queen, — 
Rose  of  my  life,  sweet  Amy  Dean  ! 


MY  MARY. 


How  softly  steal  the  twilight  shades 

Along  the  pale  September  sky; 
How  purely  bright  the  diamond  dews 

Among  the  clover  blossoms  lie. 
At  this  sweet  hour  when  toils  are  o'er, 

And  homeward  hies  the  weary  bee, 
I  know  beside  my  cottage  door, 

My  bride,  my  Mary  waits  for  me. 

The  clover  bloom  is  on  her  cheek, 

And  in  her  eye  the  diamond  dew, 
And  ne'er  in  virgin  bosom  beat 

A  heart  more  loving  pure  and  true. 
She  thinks  her  hunter  strangely  late 

As  shadows  lengthen  o'er  the  lea ; 
And  now  beside  my  cottage  gate, 

My  gentle  Mary  /waits  for  me. 

The  bloom  is  fading  from  her  cheek ; 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  starting  tears; 
When  lo,  adown  the  forest  path, 

My  Rover's  welcome  voice  she  hears. 


MY   MARY.  103 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  gloom  in  vain, 
For  darkness  deepens  round  each  tree ; 

And  now  along  the  shadowy  lane, 
My  trembling  Mary  flies  to  me. 

My  Mary !  'tis  not  fear  that  gives 

Such  fleetness  to  her  steps  to-night, 
That  makes  her  press  so  close  to  mine 

Those  balmy  lips  and  eyes  of  light ! 
My  cottage  by  the  wood  no  more 

My  happy  cottage  home  would  be, 
.If  at  the  lane,  the  gate,  the  door, 

My  Mary  might  not  wait  for  me ! 


JENNY. 


Of  all  the  farmers'  girls  I  know, 

And  they,  to  say  the  truth,  are  many ; 

There's  scarce  among  them  one,  I  trow, 
In  all  things  can  compare  with  Jenny. 

Jenny  with  the  laughing  eyes, 

And  her  darkly  braided  tresses ; 
Jenny  with  her  fairy  form, 

And  her  dainty  foot  that  presses 
Lightly  as  the  leaves  that  fall 

On  the  grass  from  boughs  above  her ; 
Would  that  you  my  Jenny  saw, 

For  you  could  not  choose  but  love  her. 

She  can  spin  and  knit  and  sew, 

"With  those  fingers  fair  and  slender; 
She  can  mould  the  whitest  loaves, 

And  bake  them  brown  and  tender. 
And  the  cows  at  morn  and  eve 

For  her  coming  look  with  pleasure, 
Yielding  to  her  skillful  hand 

Richest  milk  in  flowing  measure. 


JENNY.  105 

At  her  call  the  lambkins  run 

Down  the  clover  paths  to  meet  her; 

For  her  care  the  garden  blossoms 

Send  their  sweet  perfumes  to  greet  her. 

Never  over  her  dear  face 

Discontent  its  gloom  is  flinging ; 
And  she  sings  as  honey  bees 

At  their  own  sweet  work  are  singing. 
In  that  little  head  she  bears 

Such  a  wondrous  stock  of  knowledge, 
That  were  I  to  tell  you  half, 

You  would  think  she'd  been  to  college ! 
But  if  I  should  sing  a  month, 

Praising  her  above  the  many, 
You  would  never  be  content  , 

Until  you  had  seen  my  Jenny. 

There  may  be  scores  of  city  girls 

Can  boast  of  fairer  faces, 
And  forms  more  shaped  to  fashion's  mold, 

Tricked  out  in  silks  and  laces. 
And  useless  fingers  lily  fair 

With  gilded  trifles  playing, 
And  rosy  lips,  and  languid  eyes, 

May  tempt  young  hearts  a-straying ; 
But  if  from  these  you  turn  aside, 

A  wiser  man  than  many, 
And  seek  a  WOMAN  for  your  bride, 

Perhaps  you'll  find  my  Jenny. 


JOSEPHINE. 


How  like  a  blossom  fair  and  frail, 

Is  she  I  love,  my  bosom's  queen ; 
My  fragile  lily  of  the  vale, 

My  gentle  Josephine. 
So  fail-,  so  pure,  so  frail  she  seems 

I  dare  not  half  my  passion  own, 
Lest,  like  the  angel  of  my  dreams, 

I  wake  to  find  her  flown. 

I've  seen  the  tender  flower  of  spring 

With  such  unconscious  blushes  dyed, 
When  low  the  amorous  breeze  would  sing 

What  I  to  speak  have  tried. 
I've  watched  it  still  as  flushed  and  pale 

It  trembled  to  the  breeze's  sigh, 
Then  drooped,  while  listening  to  the  tale, 

In  virgin  bloom  to  die ! 

And  thus  I  fear  my  ruder  love 

Would  crush  the  blossom  I  would  bless, 
I  dare  not  ask  the  one  sweet  word 

To  seal  my  happiness ; 


JOSEPHINE.  107 


So  like  a  blossom  fair  and  frail, 
Is  she  I  love,  my  bosom's  queen, 

My  fragile  lily  of  the  vale, 
Mv  gentle  Josephine. 


LITTLE  ALICE. 


Blow  soft,  ye  gentle  summer  winds, 

Round  the  dear  home  where  Alice  dwells  ; 
Waft  to  her  songs  of  happy  birds, 

And  odaps  from  sweet  lily  bells. 
Fan  the  pale  roses  on  her  cheeks 

To  rosier  bloom  each  coming  day, 
Kiss  her  young  lips  and  forehead  fair, 

And  through  her  clustering  ringlets  play. 

She  is  the  one  sweet  bud  of  hope 

To  bloom  upon  the  household  tree, 
Deal  gently  with  her,  winds  of  heaven, 

Unfold  the  blossom  tenderly. 
May  no  rude  storm  or  fatal  blight 

Reach  the  dear  home  where  Alice  dwells, 
Amid  the  songs  of  happy  birds, 

And  fragrance  from  the  lily  bells. 


ESTELLE. 


How  motionless,  how  pale  she  stands, 
A  statue  cold  with  icy  hands 
Clasped  tightly  o'er  a  breast  of  snow; 
And  but  that  oft  her  dark  eyes  glow 
With  the  strange  fire  that  fills  them  now, 
And  wreathes  with  living  light  her  brow, 
She  might  be  what  at  times  she  seems  — 
A  thing  to  haunt  your  midnight  dreams, 
An  iceberg  worn  by  wind  and  storm 
Till  moulded  to  a  woman's  form, 
Then  left,  a  monument  of  rest, 
On  some  lone  isle  in  ocean's  breast. 

But  words  are  on  her  parting  lips ; 
Her  soul  seems  waking  from  eclipse  : 
For  name  and  fame  !     The  words  are  said, 
And  the  deep  thoughts  \into  them  wed, 
Are  burning  in  her  eye's  dark  flame, 
And  on  her  brow — for  name  and  fame ! 

Back  to  her  cheek  with  quivering  start 
The  life  blood  rushes  from  her  heart  — 


ESTELLE. 


So  cold,  so  beautiful,  it  glows 

Like  sunlight  on  the  polar  snows. 

That  blush  becomes  thee  passing  well, 

O  gifted,  proud,  and  cold  Estelle! 

Yet  those  who  know  what  passion  wrings 

The  heart  from  whence  such  beauty  springs, 

May  well  the  glorious  boon  forego, 

And  lose  its  charm  to  shun  its  woe. 

Thy  pallid  lips  so  closely  pressed, 

Thy  still  hands  folded  o'er  thy  breast, 

Thine  eye  unblessed  by  feeling's  tear, 

Thy  brow  so  cold,  so  calm  and  clear, 

Show  that  no  thoughts  of  pleasure  came 

With  those  wild  words,  for  name  and  fame  ! 

What  hope  is  thine  of  earthly  joy 
That  time  can  blight  or  death  destroy? 
For  thou  hast  bowed  in  dust  to  mourn 
The  idol  from  thy  bosom  torn  ; 
The  cheerless  grave  has  closed  above 
Each  object  of  thine  earthly  love. 
Behind,  each  path  that  promised  bloom 
Hath  led  thee  by  an  open  tomb  ; 
Life's  troubled  ocean  spreads  before, 
And  thou  upon  its  lonely  shore 
Hast  listened  to  its  moans  so  long 
Thy  lips  would  echo  back  its  song! 

Now  Fame  her  brightest  wreath  may  twine 
Around  that  marble  brow  of  thine, 
And  worshipers  on  bended  knee 
Their  flattering  homage  pay  to  thee; 


ESTELLE.  HI 

But  laurel  crowns  could  never  press 

A  brow  more  cold  and  passionless, 

Nor  shrined  idol  calmer  stand 

Amid  her  kneeling,  votive  band. 

No  word  of  praise,  nor  passion  glance, 

Can  wake  thee  from  that  statue-trance  ; 

And  but  the  waves  that  round  thee  moan 

In  echo  to  thy  answering  tone, 

Can  quench  in  death  thine  eyes'  dark  flame, 

And  still  thy  song  for  name  and  fame. 


ROSE  OF  EYANDALE. 


O  Rose,  fair  Rose,  my  blooming  Rose, 
My  own  sweet  Rose  of  Evandale ! 

What  care  I  for  the  lotus  bloom, 

Or  for  the  violet's  sweet  perfume, 
What  care  I  for  the  lily  pale, 

While  I  can  feast  my  ravished  sight 

On  thy  dear  cheek  with  blushes  bright, 

My  peerless  Rose,  my  blooming  Rose, 
My  own  sweet  Rose  of  Evandale ! 

The  walls  that  guard  my  chosen  flower 

Are  mountains  capped  with  snow-clouds  pale, 
And  many  a  winding  streamlet  glides 
In  beauty  down  their  verdant  sides, 

To  meet  and  mingle  in  the  vale, 
Where  dwells  one  ever-blooming  spring, 
And  birds  in  charmed  numbers  sing 

To  thee,  fair  Rose,  my  blooming  Rose  ; 

My  own  sweet  Rose  of  Evandale. 

A  bower  is  by  the  stream  that  winds, 
In  ceaseless  music  through  the  vale, 


ROS  E  OF  EVANDALE.  H3 

And  thronging  there,  of  every  hue, 

In  wreathing  garlands  pearled  with  dew, 

A  thousand  blossoms  scent  the  gale ; 
But  brightest  of  them  all  is  she, 
The  peerless  Rose  that  blooms  for  me, 

My  heart's  sweet  Rose,  my  blooming  Rose, 

Mv  own  dear  Rose  of  Evandale. 


KITTY'S  CHOICE. 


A  wealthy  old  farmer  was  Absalom  Lee, 

He  had  but  one  daughter,  the  mischievous  Kitty 
So  fair  and  so  good  and  so  gentle  was  she, 

That  lovers  came  wooing  from  country  and  city. 
The  first  and  the  boldest  to  ask  for  her  hand 

Was  a  trimly  dressed  dandy  who  worshiped  her — 

"tin;" 
She  replied  with  a  smile  he  could  well  understand, 

"  That  she'd  marry  no  Ape  for  the  sake  of  his 
skin  !  " 

The  next  was  a  merchant  from  business  retired, 

Rich,  gouty  and  gruff,  a  presuming  old  sinner;  — 
Young  Kitty's  fair  form  and  sweet  face  he  admired, 

And  thought  to  himself,  "  I  can  easily  win  her." 
So  he  showed  her  his  palace,  and  made  a  bluff  bow, 

And  said  she  might  live  there,  but  wickedly  then, 
Kitty  told  him  she  long  ago  made  a  rash  vow, 

"  Not  to  marry  a  bear  for  the  sake  of  his  den!" 

A  miser  came  next ;  he  was  fearless  and  bold 
In  claiming  his  right  to  Miss  Kitty's  affection ; 

He  said  she'd  not  want  for  a  home  while  his  gold 
Could  pay  for  a  cabin  to  give  her  protection  ! 


KITTY'S    CHOICE.  115 

Half  vexed  at  his  boldness,  but  calm  in  a  trice, 
She  curtseyed,  and  thanked  him,  and  blushingly 
then, 

Demurely  repeated  her  sage  aunt's  advice, 

"JVbt  to  marry  a  hog  for  the  sake  of  his  pen!  n 

The  next  was  a  farmer ;  young,  bashful  and  shy, 

He  feared  the  bold  wooers  who  came  from  the  city ; 
But  the  flush  on  his  cheek,  and  the  light  in  his  eye, 

Soon  kindled  a  flame  in  the  bosom  of  Kitty. 
"  My  life  will  be  one  of  hard  labor,"  he  said  ; 

"But,  darling,  come  share  it  with  me  if  you  can." 
"  I  suppose,"  she  replied,  gaily  tossing  her  head, 

"  I  must  marry  the  farm  for  the  sake  of  the  man!  " 


ROLAND  AND  ROSALIE. 


A  wild  red  rose  was  blossoming 

Upon  its  bending  spray, 
Beside  a  sparkling  woodland  spring, 

Beneath  the  skies  of  May. 
Around  its  stem  their  golden  bells 

The  early  cowslips  hung, 
And  drowsy  bees  in  every  cell 
Their  dreamy  murmurs  sung. 

A  rippling  brooklet  from  the  spring 

Went  wand'ring  on  its  way, 
Among  the  cowslips'  golden  bells, 

Beside  the  rose  of  May. 
And  two  fair  children,  like  the  stream, 

In  life's  unfettered  houi-s, 
Came  out  beneath  the  spring's  soft  beam 

To  play  among  the  flowers. 

The  blooming  cheeks  of  Rosalie, 

And  Roland's  golden  hair, 
Were  lovelier  than  the  rose  of  May, 

Than  cowslip  bells  more  fair. 


ROLAND   AND  ROSALIE.  H7 

The  sunlight  glancing  on  the  wave 

Ne'er  woke  a  brighter  smile, 
Than  beamed  from  his  soft  azure  eye, 

And  wreathed  her  lips  the  while 

They  scared  the  wild  bees  from  their  cells 

Beneath  the  bending  spray, 
And  with  the  cowslip's  golden  bells 

They  twined  the  rose  of  May. 
And  Roland  bade  fair  Rosalie 

Her  gentle  head  bend  low, 
The  while  he  bound  the  braided  wreath 

Above  her  brow  of  snow. 

"  Now  list  thee,  Roland,"  said  the  maid, 

"  This  broad  green  leaf  shall  be 
A  fairy  boat  to  bear  thy  hopes 

O'er  life's  uncertain  sea. 
And  this  small  petal,  golden-hued, 

An  argosy  of  mine, 
Shall  fear  no  wreck  by  wave  or  storm, 

While  floating  close  to  thine." 

"  So  may  they  float,  dear  Rosalie," 

The  noble  Roland  said ; 
And  side  by  side  adown  the  stream 

The  fairy  vessels  sped. 
And  down  the  broader  stream  of  life, 

Two  barks,  launched  side  by  side, 
Went  long  ago  proud  Roland  Vere 

And  Rosalie,  his  bride. 


MY  ROSE. 


The  flower  I  love  best  is  no  delicate  blossom; 

Tenderly  nurtured  in  luxury's  bower, 
Fit  only  to  bloom  on  a  lace-covered  bosom, 

And  flaunt  in  the  glare  of  the  ball  room  an  hour. 
No;  out  on  the  prairie  my  wild  rose  is  growing, 

Fanned  by  the  free  winds  that  come  from  the 

west, 

The  warm  hue  of  health  on  her  bright  cheek  is 
glowing; 

My  wild  rose  of  beauty,  the  Rose  I  love  best. 

The  maiden  I  wooed  was  no  exquisite  fairy, 

Fragile  ami  dainty,  and  useless  as  fair, 
To  bask  in  the  light  like  a  gossamer  airy, 

And  vanish  away  at  the  shadow  of  care. 
No;  brave  in  her  loveliness, like  my  wild  blossom, 

She  smiles  through  the  storms  that  have  broken 

my  rest, 
Bringing  comfort  and  balm  to  my  desolate  bosom, 

O  such  is  the  Rose  I  have  clasped  to  my  breast 


A  SONG  FOR  THEE. 


A  song  for  thee,  thou  joyous  child, 

So  lightly  bounding  o'er  the  lea, 
With  heart  so  pure,  and  laugh  so  wild, 

A  merry  song  for  thee  ! 
All  day  the  blue  bird  gaily  sings, 

The  robin  makes  his  vespers  long, 
And  warbles  still  with  folded  wings 

For  thee  a  merry  song. 

A  song  for  thee,  thou  maiden  fair ; 

Of  hope  and  joy  thy  blue  eyes  speak, 
Spring's  earliest  buds  are  in  thy  hair, 

Its  bloom  upon  thy  cheek. 
Thou  standest  by  a  charmed  stream, 

And  low  its  murmurs  sing  to  thee, 
Of  youth's  sweet  prime,  its  morning  dream, 

And  angel  purity. 

And  thou  who  at  the  maiden's  side 

Art  pleading  now  with  words  so  sweet, 


120  A   SONG    FOR   THEE. 

Now  half  subduing  manhood's  pride, 

And  kneeling  at  her  feet ; 
Thou  would'st  not  list  with  half  the  joy 

To  harps,  though  strung  and  tuned  above, 
As  when  with  lips  so  bright,  so  coy, 

The  maiden  sings  of  love. 

A  song  for  thee,  thou  matron  dear ; 

There's  beauty  on  thy  placid  brow, 
Thy  dark  eyes  moist  with  many  a  tear 

Are  yet  aU  lovely  now. 
Thy  children  come  with  songs  of  mirth, 

To  thee  their  cheerfulness  impart ; 
No  joy  can  be  in  all  the  earth 

More  welcome  to  thy  heart. 

A  song  for  thee,  thou  mourning  one,  — 

Ah,  no  ;  while  bending  o'er  the  grave, 
Thou  heanest  but  the  sullen  moan 

Of  sorrow's  whelming  wave. 
Earth  has  no  music  now  for  thee, 

No  power  to  charm  thy  heart's  despair ; 
God  must  thy  only  refuge  be, 

Thy  only  solace,  prayer. 

A  song  for  thee,  thou  man  of  years, 

Thou  too  art  bending  o'er  the  tomb  ; 
Methinks  thy  waiting  spirit  hears 

The  angels  call  thee  home. 
A  blessing  on  thine  aged  head, 

Thy  spirit  still  is  pure  and  young, 
And  soon  its  pinions  will  be  spread 

Those  angel  bands  amon<r. 


A    SONG    FOR    THEE.  121 

A  song  for  Heaven  the  home  of  love, 

The  home  of  innocence  and  truth, 
A  song  for  those  who  meet  above 

In  their  immortal  youth ! 
Our  life  the  strange,  wild  prelude  seems 

To  Heaven's  undying  minstrelsy, 
And  death  the  note  that  breaks  our  dreams, 

And  sets  the  spirit  Iree. 


TO  SUMMER. 


Stay  thee,  gentle  Summer,  stay; 
Haste  not  thus  so  soon  away. 
See,  the  skies  are  blue  above, 
"Wooing  thee  with  smiles  of  love. 
Blossoms  beautiful  and  bright 
Throng  around  thy  path  of  light, 
While  the  bending  forest  trees 
Stoop  to  hear  the  whispering  breeze, 
As  its  murmurs  seem  to  say, 
Gentle  Summer,  stay,  O  stay  ! 

Morning  in  her  radiant  car 
Woos  thee  from  the  hills  afar ; 
With  alternate  hopes  and  fears, 
Smiling  now  and  now  in  tears, 
See  she  flings  her  balmy  dew, 
Fresh  from  yonder  vault  of  blue, 
O'er  the  parched  and  drooping  grass 
Where  thy  glowing  footsteps  pass, 
And  with  sighs  she  seems  to  say, 
Gentle  Summer,  stay,  O  stay! 


TO    SUMMER.  123 

Noon  hath  brought  thee  robes  of  light, 
Wove  with  clouds  and  sunbeams  bright, 
And  thy  pure  and  dazzling  brow 
Beams  in  cloudless  beauty  now. 
See,  he  looks  on  thee  with  pride  — 
Summer,  thou'rt  his  chosen  bride  ; 
Do  not  from  his  presence  fly, 
See,  the  love  that  lights  his  eye, 
Half  commanding,  seems  to  say, 
Stay  thee,  gentle  Summer,  stay ! 

Evening  flings  her  splendors  free 
O'er  the  sunset  skies  for  thee 
See  beside  the  sparkling  rills 
Where  the  clouds  have  kissed  the  hills, 
Stands  she  now  with  matron  grace, 
Wooing  thee  to  her  embrace. 
Rest  thee,  beauteous  Summer,  rest, 
In  the  crimson  curtained  west, 
Haste  not  thus  so  soon  away, 
Stay  thee,  gentle  Summer,  stay. 

Night  hath  spread  her  ocean  blue, 
Gemmed  with  isles  of  golden  hue  ; 
Billows  sleep  in  silence  there  ; 
Cloudless  all  that  sea  of  air ; 
Save  one  shadowy  sail  afar, 
Moored  beside  its  island  star. 
Lovely  Summer,  if  thou  go, 
Storms  will  rise  and  tempests  blow ; 
Wrecked  Avill  be  that  fairy  sail 
If  it  meet  the  autumn  gale ; 


124  TO  SUMMER. 

Haste  not  then  so  soon  away, 
Stay  thee,  gentle  Summer,  stay. 

Vainly  morning  spreads  her  feast 
In  the  bright  and  balmy  east ; 
Vainly  o'er  the  hills  afar, 
Evening  lights  her  beacon  star ; 
Vainly  with  his  luring  wiles 
Noon  in  manhood's  beauty  smiles. 
O'er  her  placid  azure  deeps 
Night,  the  jewelled  goddess  weeps  — 
Vain  the  smile,  and  vain  the  tear, 
Summer  may  not  linger  here. 

Clouds  are  darkening  round  thy  way ; 
Summer,  here  thou  canst  not  stay. 
Higher,  darker  still  they  rise, 
Mountains  floating  in  the  skies. 
Speed  thee  on  thy  pathway  now, 
Summer  with  the  dazzling  brow. 
Ah,  thy  cheek  is  cold  and  pale, 
Soon  thou'lt  slumber  in  the  vale, 
Faded  flowers  shall  strew  thy  grave, 
Drooping  willows  o'er  thee  wave, 
Autumn  winds  shall  sing  thy  knell, 
Gentle  Summer,  fare  thee  well ! 


NIGHT  STORMS. 


To-night  the  rain  is  falling, 

The  lightning  blinds  my  eyes, 
The  clouds  to  earth  are  calling, 

The  echoing  earth  replies. 
I  list  with  fearful  wonder, 

As  nigher  still  and  nigher 
The  rattling,  crashing  thunder 

Bounds  on  its  path  of  fire  ! 
With  every  bound  it  maketh, 

With  every  flash  of  light, 
My  spirit  backward  taketh 

To  other  days  its  flight. 
One  year — alas,  one  only  ! 

It  seems  an  age  to  me, 
For  I  now  sad  and  lonely, 

Was  then  so  blest  with  thee. 
One  year  ago  the  flashing 

Of  light  was  in  the  sky, 
The  thunder  wild  and  crashing, 

With  stormy  speed  went  by. 
It  echoed  from  the  hill  top, 

Its  voice  was  in  the  vale, 
And  then  as  now  each  rain  drop 

Was  paired  with  one  of  hail. 


126  NIGHT   STORMS. 

The  fierce  north  wind  was  rending 

The  oaks  so  strong  and  tall, 
Whose  broken  boughs  descending 

Fell  on  our  cabin  wall. 
Our  lowly  cabin  trembled 

Beneath  the  rushing  flood, 
And  I  but  half  dissembled 

The  fear  that  chilled  my  blood. 
But  thou  wert  then  beside  me, 

Thy  arm  was  round  me  thrown, 
And  gently  didst  thou  chide  me 

For  fears  to  thee  unknown. 
And  while  the  storm  was  sweeping 

Adown  the  darkened  sky, 
And  I  in  terror  weeping 

Clung  to  thee  tremblingly ; 
How  fondly  didst  thou  bless  me, 

And  smile  my  fears  away, 
And  to  thy  bosom  press  me, 

And  tell  me  of  a  day 
When  thou  in  early  childhood, 

Beside  thy  native  stream, 
Didst  wander  in  the  wildwood, 

Beneath  the  sunset  beam ; 
And  how  the  sky  was  clouded 

With  sudden  storms  that  came 
Like  demon  spirits  shrouded 

In  robes  of  living  flame ; 
And  how  their  voices  sounded 

To  thee,  a  fearless  child, 
As  through  the  air  they  bounded, 

Like  music  strange  and  wild ; 


NIGHT    STORMS.  127 

Like  instruments  from  heaven, 

The  drum  and  clarion  shrill, 
To  every  spirit  given, 

And  played  on  every  hill. 
The  stormy  chorus  roaring 

Swept  onward  by  the  gale, 
The  rushing  waters  pouring 

Adown  the  darkened  vale, 
These  sang  to  thy  young  spirit 

In  glorious  harmony, 
For  well  didst  thou  inherit 

A  passion  for  the  free, 
A  passion  for  the  fearless, 

With  strength  and  beauty  fraught ; 
And  night  storms  wild  and  cheerless 

To  thee  no  terror  brought. 
I  felt  my  heart  grow  stronger 

By  beating  close  to  thine, 
The  lightning  seemed  no  longer 

With  angry  glare  to  shine. 
I  blessed  its  light  revealing 

o  o 

To  me  thy  tranquil  eyes, 
I  blessed  the  thunder  pealing 

In  triumph  through  the  skies. 
I  loved  the  storm  for  waking 

Such  thoughts  within  thy  breast, 
My  fetters  too  were  breaking, 

My  spirit  too  was  blessed. 
But  now  alone  and  tearful 

I  list  the  tempest's  roar, 
My  heart  beats  faint  and  fearful, 

I  hear  thv  voice  no  more. 


THOU  COMEST  TO  ME. 


Thou  comest  when  the  midnight  breeze 

All  mournfully  is  sighing, 
And  but  the  dead  leaves  on  the  trees 

In  broken  tones  replying  — 
Then  comest  thou  to  me ; 
Thy  voice  is  like  the  night  wind's  voice, 

In  mystery  enshrouded : 
Thy  form  is  like  my  thought  of  thee 
Where  thou  dost  stand  all  gloriously 

In  light  and  joy  unclouded. 
Thou  dost  enfold  me  as  the  breeze 
Clasps  in  its  viewless  arms  the  trees, 

Whose  thousand  pulses  tremble 
If  but  the  faintest  breath  they  feel, 

Nor  can  their  joy  dissemble. 

My  heart  is  like  the  withered  leaf, 

So  faded,  drooping,  dying  ; 
Yet  one  sweet  joy  it  hath  in  grief 

To  hear  thy  voice  still  sighing, 
'  O  love,  come  up  to  me ! 
Come  up  to  me ! '     O  spirit  voice, 

Mysterious  in  thy  sweetness, 


THOU   COMEST   TO   ME.  129 

Fain  would  the  withered  leaf  arise, 
And  to  be  near  thee  in  the  skies, 

Outstrip  the  wind  in  fleetness ; 
But  while  it  waits  a  higher  will, 
Be  thou  amid  the  night  wind  still, 

And  still  for  me  be  keeping, 
As  thou  hast  kept,  though  all  unseen, 

Thy  watch  of  love  unsleeping. 


6* 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 


Fair  children  leave  your  careless  play 

And  bring  your  sweet  wild  flowers  to  me, 
For  all  too  sad  my  heart  has  grown 

To  mingle  in  your  revelry. 
Come  where  the  young  spring  sunlight  falls 

So  softly  on  this  bank  of  green, 
Where  pale  blue  violets  gem  the  grass 

Half  hid  beneath  its  emerald  sheen. 

Come  pile  your  fragrant  blossoms  here, 

And  here  your  own  fair  forms  recline  — 
The  good  beside  the  beautiful ; 

And  while  I  thus  your  garlands  twine, 
I'll  tell  you  why  so  strangely  fell 

This  sadness  on  my  heart  to  day, 
And  why  I  sighed  amid  your  mirth, 

And  could  not  join  your  thoughtless  play. 

And  yet,  why  should  I  speak  my  grief, 

Since  hearts  like  yours,  so  light  and  young, 

Have  not  the  power  of  sympathy 

With  those  by  deepest  sorrow  wrung. 


AN  APRIL  DAY.  1 

Nay,  Fanny,  dry  those  violet  eyes, 

And  check  your  sweet  reproaches  too ; 

But  late  you  bade  me  spare  a  bud, 
Nor  from  it  brush  the  morning  dew  : 

And  shall  I  now  the  calyx  break, 

And  rudely  force  a  flower  to  bloom, 
When  well  I  know  the  passing  cloud 

Will  shroud  its  tender  heart  with  gloom  ? 
Your  heart  is  like  that  folded  bud 

So  gently  opening  hour  by  hour, 
A  sudden  storm  might  wake  to  life 

A  premature  and  drooping  flower. 

But  seest  thou  down  this  grassy  slope, 

Yon  rippling  streamlet  wind  along, 
And  dost  thou  hear  in  murmurs  sweet 

Its  low,  but  never-ceasing  song? 
I  knew  a  stream  far,  far  away, 

As  like  to  this  as  stream  may  be, 
And  sweeter  blossoms  gemmed  its  banks 

Than  these  I  twine  for  thee. 

More  sweet  because  beheld  by  one 

Who  ever  wandered  by  my  side, 
And  loved  with  me  each  flower  that  grew 

Along  that  streamlet's  sparkling  tide. 
O  many  an  April  day  like  this 

We've  roamed  among  those  blooming  trees, 
The  boxwood  and  the  hawthorn  fair, 

Whose  honeyed  fragrance  filled  the  breeze. 


132  AN  APRIL   DAY 

And  still  when  comes  the  balmy  spring, 

The  scented  hawthorn  blooms  as  fair, 
And  year  by  year  that  nameless  stream. 

Will  chant  its  own  low  music  there. 
But  I  shall  wander  there  no  more, 

Nor  clasp  that  once  beloved  hand, 
Cold,  cold  in  dust  it  moulders  now, 

And  I  am  in  a  stranger's  land. 

This  grassy  bank,  these  budding  trees, 

Familiar  flowers  and  flowing  stream, 
"With  hallowed  memories  filled  my  heart, 

And  made  the  past  the  present  seem. 
But  when  your '  cheerful  laugh  rang  out, 

The  charm  was  broke,  the  vision  flown ; 
I  saw  you  loving  and  beloved, 

I  felt  a  stranger,  and  alone. 

And  this  was  why  I  turned  aside 

And  smiled  not  on  your  mirthful  glee  ; 
And  this  was  why  I  could  not  bear 

To  mingle  in  your  revelry. 
But  now  I  see  o'er  each  young  face 

The  light  of  purest  friendship  play, 
So  take  the  garlands  I  have  twined, 

I'll  make  you  sad  no  more  to-day. 


MY  MORNING  DREAM. 


I  saw  it  in  my  morning  dream  — 
A  ship  with  all  its  sails  outspread  ; 

Not  on  the  sea,  nor  on  the  stream, 
But  through  the  waveless  air  it  sped. 

I  saw  it  when  with  canvass  white 

Before  the  freshening  breeze  unrolled, 

The  unrisen  sun's  first  beam  of  light 
Had  tinged  its  sides  with  paly  gold. 

High  up  against  the  orient  sky, 
Without  a  cloud  its  path  to  mar, 

It  held  its  way  triumphantly, 

While  o'er  it  beamed  the  morning  star. 

And  still  as  swept  the  twilight  sea 
That  star-led  ship  so  wondrous  fair, 

Sweet  strains  of  angel  minstrelsy 
Came  floating  backward  on  the  air. 

I  could  but  weep,  I  could  but  gaze, 
And  clasp  my  hands  and  wildly  pray 


134  MY    MORNING    DREAM. 

That  I  might  join  their  angel  lays, 
And  sing  as  fearlessly  as  they. 

And  lo,  as  still  I  prayed  and  wept, 
Still  nearer  to  the  earth  they  came ; 

And  as  the  proud  ship  downward  swept 
I  heard  them  speak  my  humble  name. 

I  heard  one  dear  familiar  tone  — 

Familiar  now,  alas,  no  more  ; 
One  hand  reached  forth  to  clasp  my  own  — 

A  hand  I  oft  had  clasped  before. 

Without  the  power  or  wish  to  speak, 
I  stood,  with  silent  joy  oppressed, 

Till  startled  by  my  own  wild  shriek 

"When  struck  the  ship  a  rock's  rude  crest. 

My  prayers  had  lured  it  to  my  side 
While  rung  the  angel  anthem  sweet, 

And  now  it  fell,  in  all  its  pride, 
A  glorious  ruin  at  my  feet. 

Forever  stilled  those  triumph  lays, 

That  pilot  star  forever  gone  ; 
And  I,  alas,  but  weep  and  gaze 

Beside  the  ruined  ship  alone. 

If  this  may  be  the  doom  of  woe 

That  waits  my  bark  on  being's  stream, 

I  cannot  tell ;  I  only  know 

I  saw  it  in  my  morning  dream. 


THE   BLUEBIRD'S   SOXG. 


Each  morn  beside  my  open  door 

The  blue  bird  sits  and  sings  to  me ; 
Those  same  sweet  notes  told  o'er  and  o'er, 

But  prove  his  loving  constancy. 
"  I  love  thee  ; "  thus  the  blue  bird  sings, 

And  while  the  prelude  swells  more  free, 
He  lightly  lifts  his  azure  wings, 

And  turns  his  head  to  look  at  me. 

I  love  thee  !  gently  as  the  dew 

Upon  the  earth's  green  bosom  falls, 
So  to  my  heart  that  love-note  true 

A  thought  of  former  joy  recalls. 
I  love  thee  !  soft  winds  whisper  love, 

Earth  blooms' amid  its  light  divine, 
It  smiles  from  yon  blue  sky  above, 

It  warms  thy  heart  and  throbs  in  mine  ! 

'Tis  thus  the  blue  bird  sings  to  me, 
And  thus  he  proves  himself  sincere, 

By  warbling  o'er  unceasingly 

Such  notes  as  these  where  I  can  hear. 


136  THE    BLUEBIRD'S    SONG. 

I  love  thee !     '  Tis  the  sweetest  song 

That  ever  bird  or  poet  sung; 
'  Twill  make  the  heart  forget  its  wrong, 

E'en  when  by  deepest  sorrow  wrung ; 

'Twill  make  the  rose  bloom  on  the  cheek, 

The  starlight  brighten  in  the  eyes ; 
No  dearer  words  the  lips  can  speak, 

No  truer  joy  the  heart  can  prize. 
Sing  on,  sing  on,thou  darling  bird, 

And  say,  I  love  thee,  o'er  and  o'er, 
But  do  not  think  I  never  heard 

That  same  sweet  love  song  breathed  before ! 

Once  when  a  spring  as  bright  as  this 

Was  blooming  o'er  the  grassy  lea, 
The  lips  that  pressed  on  mine  a  kiss 

Did  softly  whisper  it  to  me. 
And  days  and  nights,  for  years  and  years, 

I've  listened  to  that  tender  strain, 
And  still  my  heart  unwearied  hears 

The  murmvir  of  the  sweet  refrain. 

I  love  thee ;  love,  bend  close  to  mine 
Thy  loving  eyes  that  say,  I  love, 

Plain  as  the  night  stars  say,  we  shine, 
•  Without  a  word  the  lips  to  move. 

And  thus  while  mine  are  answering  true, 
O  love-bird  by  my  open  door, 

Still  flash  in  light  thy  wings  of  blue 
And  sing,  I  love  thee,  evermore. 


ROSES   BLOOM. 


By  the  thorny  wayside  hedges, 
Blushing  o'er  the  rocky  ledges, 
Creeping  'mid  the  mossy  sedges 
By  the  woodland  streamlet's  side, 

Roses  bloom. 

In  the  palace  gardens  glowing, 
When  the  winds  of  June  are  blowing, 
Or  in  darkened  windows,  knowing 
Scarce  the  lamplight  from  the  sun, 

Roses  bloom. 

When  the  summer  sun  declining 
Slantly  through  the  wood  is  shining, 
Rustic  lovers  sweetly  twining 
Blossoms  with  their  vows  of  love, 

Bless  the  Rose. 

Through  all  life  it  shall  remind  them 
Of  the  springtime  left  behind  them, 
Of  the  years  that  yet  shall  find  them 
Like  the  blended  bloom  and  fragrance, 

Of  the  Rose. 


138  ROSES    BLOOM. 

Now  the  mother  watch  is  keeping 

O'er  her  infant  sweetly  sleeping, 

And  with  rapture  almost  weeping 

As  she  sees  on  its  fair  cheek, 

Roses  bloom ; 

Then,  while  grief  her  heart  is  rending, 

In  her  silent  sorrow  bending, 

Tears  are  with  the  dewdrops  blending, 

On  the  Rose  that  blooms  as  fail- 
On  its  tomb. 

Beneath  the  hedge  the  rose  is  dying, 
From  beauty's  cheek  the  bloom  is  flying, 
And  youth  and  beauty  lowly  lying, 
Leave  the  world  they  once  have  blessed 

"Wrapped  in  gloom. 

But  where  they  died  new  charms  are  springing; 
As  death  its  ceaseless  change  is  bringing, 
So  life  to  life  is  ever  clinging, 
And  still  for  life,  for  love  and  death, 

Roses  bloom. 


THE   PINE. 


As  hour  by  hour  at  day's  decline 
I've  sat  and  watched  yon  stately  pine, 
And  seen  its  pencilled  branches  lie 
So  still  against  the  wintry  sky, 
Or  softly  waving  to  and  fro 
To  welcome  down  the  falling  snow, 
I've  wished  that  to  my  heart  were  given 
The  hopes  that  look  alone  to  heaven ; 
Then,  like  the  Pine  tree  ever  green, 
Amid  the  wintry  tempests  seen, 
So  calmly  might  I  brave  the  strife, 
And  rise  above  the  storms  of  life. 
Then  soft  as  on  yon  waving  tree 
Would  fall  the  snows  of  age  on  me, 
And  birds  that  chant  in  early  spring 
Amid  my  sheltering  boughs  would  sing ; 
And  winds  that  through  the  forests  moan, 
Would  sigh  to  me  in  gentler  tone. 
The  soft,  confiding  whispering  breeze 
Would  pass  the  leafless  forest  trees, 


140  THE   PINE. 

And  welcomed  to  my  thrilling  breast, 
Fold  up  its  weary  wings  to  rest. 
So  blessed  and  blessing  might  I  rise 
Calm  and  serenely  toward  the  skies, 
So  might  I  be,  at  life's  decline, 
Loved  as  I  love  yon  stately  pine. 


"HATH  NOT  THY  ROSE  A  CANKER?" 


Pressed  with  the  weight  of  morning  dews 
Its  slender  stalk  the  rose  was  bending, 
And  red  and  white  in  changing  hues 
Upon  its  cheek  were  sweetly  blending. 
But  underneath  the  leaflets  bright, 
By  blushing  beauty  hid  from  sight, 
Enamored  with  its  fragrance  rare, 
The  canker  worm  was  feasting  there. 

O  thou  who  in  thy  youthful  days 

Ambition's  wreaths  art  proudly  twining, 
And  fondly  hoping  worldly  praise 

Will  cheer  thine  after-years'  declining, 
Beware  lest  every  tempting  rose 
That  in  ambition' s  pathway  grows, 
Conceal  beneath  its  semblance  fair 
The  lurking  canker  of  despair. 

And  thou  who  in  thine  early  morn 
For  sin  the  paths  of  truth  art  leaving ; 


142     "HATH    NOT    THY    ROSE    A    CANKER?" 

Remember,  though  no  pointed  thorn 

May  pierce  the  garland  thou  art  weaving, 
Yet  every  bud  whence  flowerets  bloom 
Shall  its  own  living  sweets  entomb, 
For  deep  the  canker  worm  of  care 
Is  feasting  on  its  vitals  there. 

Thou  too,  the  beautiful  and  bright, 

At  pleasure's  shrine  devoutly  kneeling, 
Dost  thou  not  see  the  fatal  blight 
Across  thy  roseate  chaplet  stealing  ? 

Time  hath  not  touched  with  fingers  cold 
Those  glossy  leaves  of  beauty's  mould, 
And  yet  each  bud  and  blossom  gay 
Is  marked  for  slow  but  sure  decay 

O  ye  who  sigh  for  flowers  that  bloom 

In  one  eternal  spring  of  gladness, 
"Where  beauty  finds  no  darkened  tomb, 
And  joy  hath  never  dreamed  of  sadness, 
There  is  a  realm  ye  all  may  know, 
Where  Sharon's  fadeless  roses  blow; 
Nor  blighting  breath  of  sin  or  care, 

O  O  t 

Nor  sorrow's  canker  enter  there  ! 


APRIL  AND  MAY. 


The  changing  April  sunlight  played 

Its  merry  gambols  on  the  stream, 
Now  veiling  all  its  waves  in  shade, 

Then  glancing  forth  with  dazzling  gleam  ; 
Now  touching  wTith  a  softer  light 

The  mimic  whirlpools  on  its  breast, 
Then  gilding  with  a  radiance  bright 

Each  tiny  wavelet's  lifted  crest. 
The  flowers  that  grew  by  thousands  there 

In  many  a  careless  tangled  braid, 
Gave  fragrance  to  the  restless  air 

That '  mid  their  bright  corollas  played. 
The  scented  boxwood  by  the  hill 

Was  holding  all  its  blossoms  up, 
And  April  raindrops  sparkled  still 

In  each  uplifted,  snowy  cup. 
Beside  the  stream  the  snow  white  thorn 

Spread  out  its  virgin  blossoms  fair, 
And  incense  with  the  blossoms  born 

Went  floating  through  the  sunlit  air. 


144  APRIL   AND   MAY. 

The  long  grass  waved  its  emerald  plumes 
Unceasing  in  the  western  breeze, 

And  birds  that  breathed  the  sweet  perfumes 
Were  warbling  '  midst  the  budding  trees. 

Sweet  morn,  the  last  of  April  days, 

'Twas  meet  that  one  so  fair  as  thou, 
Should  fade  before  our  longing  gaze, 

With  garlands  blooming  on  thy  brow. 
'Twas  meet  that  o'er  thy  infant  bloom 

The  softest  breath  of  spring  should  blow ; 
Twas  meet  that  round  thy  early  tomb 

The  fairest  flowers  of  spring  should  grow. 
For  ere  another  morn  may  break 

In  radiant  beauty  o'er  the  earth, 
The  sweetly  blushing  May  shall  wake 

To  light  and  life,  to  joy  and  mirth. 
And  all  the  dew  that  nature  showers 

Like  gems  along  thy  pathway  now, 
Is  but  to  nourish  brighter  flowers 

To  twine  around  her  cherub  brow. 
And  birds  with  practiced  notes  must  sing 

Their  sweetest  anthems  on  the  breeze, 
'  Tis  meet  the  favorite  child  of  Spring 

Be  met  with  honors  such  as  these. 

And  thus  was  born  the  beauteous  May, 
Amid  the  dew,  amid  the  bloom, 

She  rose,  like  beauty  from  decay, 
To  strew  fresh  buds  o'er  April's  tomb. 


A  SONG  FOR  MAY. 


While  the  fresh  green  grass  is  springing, 

Starred  and  gemmed  with  countless  flowers, 
And  the  sweet  young  May  is  bringing 

Perfume  from  her  far  off  bowers, 
"While  the  robin's  song  is  ringing 

Through  the  balmy  morning  hours, 
Every  poet  too  is  singing  — 

Singing  of  the  sweet  May  showers, 
Singing  of  the  dawning  beauty, 

Of  this  lovely  world  of  ours  ! 

Hark  !  the  blue  bird's  song  entrancing 

From  the  budding  orchard  rings, 
While  the  rosy  light  is  glancing 

From  his  restless  azure  wings  ! 
Poets,  while  the  spring  advancing 

Thus  her  cheering  music  brings, 
O  remember  that  to  mortals 

Ye  are  birds  without  their  wings  ! 
Poet-birds,  and  bird-like  poets, 

Each  is  happiest  while  he  sings. 


146  A  SONG   FOR  MAY. 

Then  together  join  in  chorus, 

"Welcome  in  the  smiling  May  ; 
Bless  the  green  buds  bending  o'er  us, 

They'll  be  leaves  another  day. 
Bless  the  wind  that  goes  before  us, 

Waking  beauty  in  our  way, 
Till  we  dream  it  doth  restore  us 

Back  to  life's  sweet  April  day ! 
Birds  and  poets  join  in  chorus, 

Hail  the  birth  of  blooming  May ! 


OUR  WILDWOOD  HOME. 


A  lowly  wildwood  home  is  ours, 
No  spacious  halls,  no  lofty  towers, 
No  gardens  gay  with  fairy  bowers, 

Nor  pomp  nor  pride  are  here. 
Yet  wealth  with  fingers  nerved  with  gold, 
Those  magic  fingers  bright  and  cold, 
Amid  the  realms  of  romance  old 

Ne'er  wrought  a  home  so  dear. 

Its  summer  roof  is  gay  with  moss, 
And  climbing  vines  and  roses  cross, 
And  blooming  trees  their  branches  toss 

In  breeze  and  sunshine  there  ; 
And  when  her  garland  autumn  weaves 
Of  coral  seeds  and  painted  leaves, 
The  moss  grows  gray  along  the  eaves, 

Like  age's  whitening  hair, 

When  piled  with  winter's  drifting  snow, 
Though  fierce  the  north  winds  round  it  blow, 


148  OUR    WILD  WOOD    HOME. 

No  chill  can  reach  the  hearth  below 

Where  social  love  holds  sway, 
Where  cheerily  each  winter  night, 
While  blazing  fires  burn  high  and  bright, 
The  scattered  household  band  unite 
Around  the  hearthstone  gray. 

The  dear  old  hearthstone  of  our  home ! 
Where'er  on  earth  our  steps  shall  roam, 
!N"o  purer  light  than  thine  can  come, 

Life's  pilgrimage  to  cheer  — 
Light  from  the  blazing  brands  piled  high, 
And  holier  light,  that  cannot  die, 
From  each  warm  lip  and  loving  eye 

That  makes  our  household  dear. 


LONG  AGO. 


Long  ago  when  I  a  dreamer 

By  the  April  brooks  went  straying, 
I  but  saw  the  opening  blossoms, 

I  but  heard  the  breezes  playing. 
Pressing  oft  the  springing  mosses 

Where  had  slept  the  winter  snow, 
I  could  feel  no  thorns  beneath  them, 

In  that  blissful  long  ago. 

Long  ago  when  half  awakened 

From  that  idle  springtime  dreaming, 
I  but  saw  the  summer  splendor 

O'er  life's  sparkling  waters  beaming. 
Twining  then  hope's  fairy  garlands, 

Roseate  in  their  summer  glow, 
Could  I  think  of  blight  or  darkness, 

In  that  radiant  long  ago  ? 

Long  ago  all  dreaming  vanished, 

Died  the  springtime  blossoms  tender, 
Long  ago  the  autumn  shadows 

Fell  upon  that  summer  splendor! 
I  with  weary  hands  am  toiling 

Where  life's  darkened  stream  moves  slow, 
And  like  withered  leaves  around  me, 

Lie  the  hopes  of  long  ago. 


MY  PRISOXED  BIRD. 


I  listen  to  each  bird  that  sings 

Among  these  budding  trees  of  May, 
And  weep  for  one  whose  weary  wings 

Are  folded  in  its  cage  to-day. 
A  dreamy,  drooping,  silent  bird, 

Nor  note  of  joy  nor  plaint  of  woe 
Are  from  its  lonely  prison  heard  — 

Ah  me,  it  was  not  always  so ! 

Poor  bird  !  my  pet,  my  idol  too, 

In  those  bright  years  when  life  was  joy ; 
When  '  mid  the  flowers  in  May's  sweet  dew 

Thou  sang'st  of  bliss  without  alloy ! 
Of  bliss  that  would  be  thine  and  mine 

Beyond  those  far  unfolding  gates, 
Where  by  her  radiant  noonday  shrine 

The  ever-glorious  Future  waits. 

Ah  me;  how  wild  the  pathway  grew 

As  toward  life's  noontide  gates  we  came  1 


MY   PRISONED   BIRD.  151 

Hot  winds  drank  up  the  sweet  May  dew, 
And  crisped  the  flowers  as  with  a  flame. 

Strange  murmurs  in  the  air  were  heard, 
Of  toil  and  strife  and  wild  unrest ; 

Strange  voices  mocked  my  timid  bird, 
And  drove  it  shrinking  to  my  breast. 

I  clasped  it,  trembling,  shrinking  too  ; 

Yet  onward  urged  by  life's  rude  throng, 
I  did  what  strong  ones  bade  me  do, 

And  stilled  for  aye  its  voice  of  song. 
I  closed  it  in  my  darkened  heart, 

Shut  out  the  light  of  love's  sweet  day, 
And  there  it  sadly  droops  apart, 

Uncheered  by  all  this  bloom  of  May. 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL. 


In  dimness  of  twilight,  all  sadly  and  lonely, 
A  youthful  adventurer  rode  o'er  the  plain, 
The  stillness  was  broke  by  the  whippoorwill  only, 
•     As  sadly  he  sounded  his  mournful  refrain. 
By  the  stream  near  the  mill 
Sang  the  lone  whippoorwill, 
And  echo  far  distant  caught  up  the  wild  strain, 

Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will ; 
She  murmured  it  o'er  to  her  favorite  hill, 

And  faintly  the  hill  sung  it  back  to  the  plain. 

The  wanderer  sighed,  for  his  steps  were  departing 
Far,  far  from  his  home  and  the  land  of  his  birth, 
And,  spite  of  his  pride,  the  warm  tear  drops  were 

starting, 

Unchecked  and  unheeded  they  fell  to  the  earth, 
While  unceasingly  still 
Sang  the  lone  whippoorwill, 
And  sadly  re-echoed  the  mournful  refrain 

Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will ; 
But  fainter  it  grew  as  he  paused  on  the  hill, 

And  turned  his  last  look  toward  the  valley  and 
plain. 


THE    WHIP-POOR-WILL.  153 

Then  he  thought  of  his  parents  who  gave  him  their 

blessing, 

Of  sisters  who  murmured  their  tearful  adieu, 
Of  brothers  whose  hands  he  no  more  should  be  press 
ing, 

But  most  of  a  maiden  whose  soft  eyes  of  blue 
Seemed  to  follow  him  still, 
While  the  lone  whippoorwill 
More  sadly  was  sounding  the  mournful  refrain, 

Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will ; 
Till  the  wanderer  turned  with  a  sigh  from  the  hill 
And  the  shadows  of  night  settled  over  the  plain. 

"Now  years  have  gone  by,  and  the  youth  is  a  stranger, 

Still  far  from  his  kindred  and  far  from  his  love, 
But  there  lies  near  his  heart  through  all  peril  and 

danger 

A  soft  golden  ringlet  encircling  a  dove  ; 
It  was  there  on  the  hill 
When  the  lone  whippoorwill 
So  mournfully  sounded  the  solemn  refrain, 

Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will ; 
'  Tis  the  charm  of  his  life,  and  he'll  cherish  it  still, 
As  the  gift  of  the  maiden  who  dwelt  on  the  plain. 

He  wanders  alone,  in  the  twilight,  in  sadness, 

He  dreams  of  the  maiden,  the  ringlet,  the  dove, 
When  sudden  his  eyes  are  uplifted  in  gladness, 
The  night  birds  are  wheeling  in  circles  above! 
Never,  since  by  the  mill 
When  the  lone  whippoorwill 
So  sadly  was  sounding  the  mournful  refrain, 
Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will, 


154  THE    WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Hath  he  heard  the  wild  notes  that  his  bosom  could 

thrill, 
And  now  he  could  weep  but  to  hear  them  again. 

But  in  vain  may  he  linger,  in  vain  may  he  listen, 

The  night-birds  like  arrows  shoot  over  the  plain  — 
They  are  gone,  and  the  cold  stars  in  mockery  glisten, 
While  silence  and  darkness  close  round  him  again. 
Nevermore  by  the  mill 
Shall  the  lone  whippoorwill 
For  him  be  repeating  the  mournful  refrain, 

Whip-poor-will,  whip-poor-will ; 
He  knows  the  dark  omen  can  bode  him  but  ill, 
The  maid  is  another's  —  his  worship  is  vain ! 


MY  BOYHOOD'S    LOVE. 


My  boyhood's  love !  The  old  man  sighed 
And  shook  his  thin  locks  in  the  breeze, 

No  words  in  all  the  world  beside 
Can  thrill  my  aged  heart  like  these. 

My  life  seems  like  yon  wintry  cloud 
Slow  moving  down  the  evening  sky, 

From  its  high  station,  cold  and  proud, 
It  darkly  sinks,  alone  to  die. 

Alone,  but  for  the  one  bright  star 
That  far  beyond  it  beams  in  heaven; 

Alone,  but  for  such  joys  as  are 

From  angel  minds  to  mortals  given ! 

O  can  it  be  that  she  Avho  died 

With  youth's  bright  roses  on  her  brow, 
Who  slept  to  wake  in  beauty's  pride 

Will  stoop  to  know  and  love  me  now? 


156  MY  BOYHOOD'S  LOVE. 

What  dark,  mysterious  fate  is  this 
That  bids  the  weary  still  live  on, 

Till  the  last  drop  of  wretchedness 
From  life's  embittered  cup  is  gone  ? 

Look  on  this  frail,  decaying  form, 

These  sightless  eyes,  these  locks  of  snow, 

Phis  pulse  that  once  beat  high  and  warm, 
Scarce  bids  the  vital  current  flow. 

Yet  sure  as  in  its  beauty  fair 

Beyond  the  cloud  the  star  beams  true, 
So  sure  my  boyhood's  love  is  there, 

So  sure  she  knows  and  loves  me  too ! 

Ask  not  her  name:  the  angels  know 
What  name  her  spirit  bears  above, 

The  only  one  she  has  below 

Is  in  my  heart  —  my  boyhood's  love ! 


"LIFE  IS  REAL." 


"Life  is  real!  Life  is  earnest!" 

Why  that  sigh  ? 

Why  that  look  of  hopeless  sorrow 
When  thou  thinkest  of  the  morrow  ? 

Why  that  tearful  eye? 
Bind  again  thy  loosened  tresses, 
And  unclasp  the  hand  that  presses 

Thy  cold  brow ; 
"  Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! " 
Vainly  to  the  past  thou  turnest, 

That  shall  fail  thee  now. 

'Tis  but  labor  that  awaits  thee 

On  the  morn; 

Other  hands  have  wrought  before  thee, 
Other  eyes  are  watching  o'er  thee, 

Though  from  kindred  torn. 
Shall  thy  spirit  droop  and  languish, 
And  these  burning  tears  of  anguish 

Pale  thy  cheek, 

While  thy  woman  heart  is  fearing 
Lest  the  world  thy  sighs  o'erhearing, 

Now  should  call  thee  weak  ? 

Tears  from  thee  are  like  the  life  drops 

From  the  vine  ; 

Let  thine  eyes  their  lustre  keeping 
Save  the  sti-ength  thus  lost  in  weeping, 


158  "LIFE  IS   KEAL." 

Why  shouldst  thou  repine, 
While  the  promise  still  is  given  — 
"  Weary  hearts  find  rest  in  heaven !  " 

Look  above  : 

There's  one  truth  that  cannot  alter, 
Earthly  friends  may  fail  and  falter, 

God  is  always  love. 

O  'tis  not  the  far  off  future, 

Ever  bright 

With  fair  hopes  around  it  springing, 
That  from  thy  lone  heart  is  wringing 

These  sad  drops  to-night. 
'Tis  the  living  present,  lonely, 
'  Tis  the  day  of  trial,  only 

Dreaded  now, 

For  thy  strength  will  come  to-morrow, 
And  thou'lt  look  on  care  and  sorrow 

With  unclouded  brow. 

"  Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! " 

God  of  Heaven ! 

What  alternate  pride  and  meekness, 
Giant  strength  and  infant  weakness 

To  the  heart  are  given  ! 
Worn  with  grief  and  gay  with  gladness, 
Crowned  with  reason,  dark  with  madness, 

Must  it  be, 

Ere  its  pilgrimage  is  ended, 
Ere  its  dust  with  dust  is  blended, 
And  its  life  with  thee  ! 


THE   SPIRIT'S    WARNING. 


Every  night  a  spirit  cometh 

And  it  whispereth  unto  mo  — 
Dreara'st  thou  yet,  O  slumbering  mortal, 

Wake  and  grasp  reality ! 
Dreams  are  for  the  child  of  fancy, 

Visions  haunt  the  idle  brain  ; 
All  thy  youth  has  passed  in  dreaming, 

Canst  thou  call  it  back  again  ? 
Think  on  what  thy  heart  once  promised 

In  its  deep  unspoken  vow, 
See  that  promise  unfulfilled, 

Waken  and  redeem  it  now  ! 

Thus  to  me  a  spirit  whispereth 

In  the  silent  hours  of  sleep, 
And  my  heart,  awaking,  pondereth 

O'er  its  warning  sad  and  deep. 
Since  my  childhood's  twilight  morning 

I  have  thought  what  life  might  be, 
When  the  noon  of  womanhood 

Threw  its  hallowed  light  on  me. 


160  THE   SPIRIT'S    WARNING. 

In  those  dim  and  early  moments, 

Viewed  through  fancy's  light  alone, 
Who  could  paint  the  wondrous  glory 

That  around  the  future  shone  ? 
All  that  claims  the  artist's  pencil 

In  the  dew-enameled  flowers, 
All  that  poets  dream  of  beauty 

Born  amid  hope's  radiant  bowers, 
All  that  science  hath  of  brightness 

Circling  round  her  earthly  name, 
All  the  splendor  that  she  borrows 

From  religion's  purer  flame, 
All  of  joy  that  love  hath  promised 

To  the  young  heart's  fondest  prayer, 
Life's  sweet  hopes  and  dreams  of  heaven, 

Gathered  in  one  halo  there  ! 
Then  from  out  that  dazzling  future, 

Came  a  voice  whose  solemn  tone 
Trembling  o'er  my  heart's  deep  pulses 

Woke  an  echo  in  my  own. 
Lo,  all  prophet-like  and  holy 

Rose  the  solemn  voice  of  Truth, 
O'er  the  light,  beguiling  numbers 

Hope  was  chanting  to  my  youth. 
And  it  told  me  life  was  changeful 

As  the  wind-tossed  ocean  wave, 
Where  each  crested  billow  sinking 

Brings  another  to  its  grave. 
And  it  spoke  in  accents  mournful 

Of  life's  joys  by  sorrow  crossed, 
Of  its  own  high  shrine  forsaken, 

And  the  soul's  fair  Eden  lost. 


THE   SPIRIT'S  WARNING. 

Knelt  I  then,  subdued  and  prayerful, 

Faded  fancy's  light  away, 
And  o'er  all  the  distant  future 

Shone  a  milder,  purer  ray. 
With  a  purpose  deep  and  earnest 

Bent  I  at  Truth's  holy  shrine, 
Vowing  from  my  inmost   spirit 

But  to  heed  its  voice  divine. 
Through  my  life  that  vow  hath  ever 

Prompted  each  new  lay  I  sung ; 
But  too  oft  a  trifling  semblance 

Fancy's  pencil  o'er  them  flung. 
Like  the  half  awakened  sleeper 

Clinging  to  his  morning  dreams, 
Blending  still  the  shades  of  darkness 

With  the  light  that  round  him  beams  ; 
Dreaming  though  the  day  be  breaking, 

Idly  pleased  with  each  new  ray, 
Hailing,  but  with  languid  pleasure, 

Tokens  of  a  brighter  day,  — 
Thus  my  youth  has  passed  in  dreaming, 

Now  a  spirit  saith  to  me  ;  — 
"Dream  no  more,  O  slumbering  mortal  ! 

Wake  and  grasp  reality. 
Lo,  the  light  of  Truth  is  round  thee, 

Hail  it  for  the  joy  divine 
It  hath  brought  to  other  spirits, 

Though  it  brings  not  peace  to  thine. 
Though  the  charm  of  life  be  broken 

Like  the  foam  on  ocean's  wave, 
Where  each  crested  billow  sinking 

Brings  another  to  its  grave, 


1(32  THE   SPIRIT'S   WARNING. 

Still  with  higher  hopes  and  purer 
Than  beguiled  thy  aimless  youth, 

Let  thy  songs  henceforth  be  given 
For  the  earnest,  living  truth !  " 


MY  HEART  GROWS  SAD  FOR  THEE. 


My  heart  grows  sad  for  thee,  my  love, 

When  in  thy  gentle  eyes 
For  my  o'erburdenecl  life  so  oft 

The  tears  of  pity  rise. 

When  sympathetic  weariness 

On  thy  dear  brow  I  see, 
I  wish  that  I  might  build  a  bower 

Like  Rosamond's  for  thee ; 

A  bower  secure  from  every  ill 
That  human  heart  hath  wrung, 

Where  thou  might'st  dwell  without  a  care 
Thy  sister  flowers  among. 

And  I,  who  may  not,  dare  not  shrink 

Life's  wildest  storm  to  meet, 
Might  sometimes  come  to  breathe  a  word 

Of  worship  at  thy  feet ; 


164        MY    HEART    GROWS   SAD    FOR    THEE. 

Might  know  that  all  the  joy  of  love, 
And  life's  sweet  hopes  were  thine, 

Though  ever  to  my  lips  were  pressed 
Its  mingled  gall  and  wine. 

Thou  tremblest  in  my  arms  beloved, 

Thy  tears  are  falling  free,  — 
Ah,  would  that  life  had  more  of  light 

And  less  of  gloom  for  thee  ! 

Yet  by  these  clinging  arms  I  know, 

And  by  thy  pleading  eyes, 
Thou  still  would'st  pray  to  share  my  lot 

Though  darker  tempests  rise. 

Thou  would'st  not  give  one  hour  of  bliss 
Our  suffering  love  hath  known, 

To  sit  in  regal  pomp  beside 
A  monarch  on  his  throne  ! 

Forgive  the  thought,  though  born  of  love, 
That  would  have  robbed  thy  life 

Of  joy  that  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  share  its  fiercest  strife. 

Thou  gavest  but  the  sympathy 
To  thy  sweet  nature  true ;  — 

"When  bends  the  oak  beneath  the  blast 
The  vine  must  tremble  too. 

Then  closer  clasp  thy  twining  arms 
Till  strife  and  storm  are  o'er, 


MY  HEART  GROWS  SAD  FOR  THEE.   165 

I  will  not  tear  thee  from  my  side 
While  thus  the  tempests  roar. 

Misfortunes  cloud  our  life's  young  morn, 

The  skies  are  dark  above, 
But  side  by  side  we'll  brave  the  storm, 

Our  strength  our  steadfast  love. 


POESY. 

"  Thou  art  a  rock, 
I,  a  weak  wave,  would  break  ou  thee  and  die." 

Alex.  Smith. 

O  not  a  rock,  sweet  Poesy,  art  thou  to  me, 

Where  thousand  stronger  waves  than  I  might  fall 
From  thy  cold  front  to  that  unpitying  sea 

That  opes  to  shroud  them  in  oblivion's  pall; 
"Where  for  one  wave  that  might  its  foam  wreaths 

bear 

To  thy  stern  brow  in  mockery  o'er  them  bending 
A  thousand  should  sink  down  in  weak  despair, 
Their  love  for  thee  with  their  own  death  notes 

blending ; 

For  man  would  love,  and  woman  worship  thee, 
Though  thou  Avert  rock,  and  they  but  ripples  on  the 
sea, 

O  not  a  rock  to  me,  sweet  Poesy,  art  thou, 

Where  braver  barks   than   mine,  with   drooping 
sail, 

Lost  helm,  and  shivered  mast,  and  broken  prow, 
Might  sink  beside  thee  in  the  billows  pale ; 


POESY  1*37 

Where  for  one  bark  whose  daring  helmsman  might 
In  life's  last  flow  on  thy  cold  breast  be  lying, 

A  thousand  wrecks  would  strew  the  waves  of  night? 
And  love  for  thee  still  crown  the  woe  of  dying ! 

For  man  would  love  and  woman  worship  thee, 

If  thou  wert  rock,  and  they  but  frail  barks  on  the 
sea. 

O  not  a  rock,  earth-worshiped  Poesy";  thou  art 

Life's  blossom-crowned  and  balmy  breathing  spring, 
A  fount  of  joy  perennial  in  the  world's  great  heart, 

A  bird  whose  song  at  rest  or  on  the  wing 
Is  ever  sweet ;  the  bright  electric  flame 

That  fills  all  nature  with  a  life  immortal, 
Our  angel  part,  the  inheritance  that  came 

From  heaven,  and  goes  before  us  to  heaven's  por 
tal! 

Man  well  may  love,  and  woman  worship  thee, 
Thou  star-eyed  child  of  light,  undying  Poesy  ! 

O  not  a  rock  art  thou  to  whom  my  panting  soul 

Instinctive  flies  in  all  its  joy  or  woe  ! 
Thou  whose  sweet  voice  the  storms  of  passion  can 
control, 

And  change  wild  griefs  to  music's  softest  flow  ! 
Thou  on  whose  breast  of  tenderest  sympathy 

I  still  recline  with  confidence  unfearing, 
While  the  same  smile  in  childhood  bent  on  me, 

Beams  o'er  me  yet,  more  radiantly,  more  cheering. 
O  thus  forever  may  I  cling  to  thee, 
My  destiny's  one  hope —  my  heart's  one  idol,  Poesy! 
8 


MARCH! 


The  march  of  the  seasons  through  sunshine  and  rain 
Has  brought  the  bleak  March  to  our  hearthstones 

again ; 

His  winds  piping  shrill, 
Over  valley  and  hill, 

Give  a  watchword  of  duty  to  all ; 
To  each  lip  the  word  springs, 
But  most  cheerily  rings, 

In  the  morn  at  the  farmer's  loud  call, 

March ! 

Come  boys,  to  the  barnyard,  your  cattle  to  feed, 
And  girls  of  your  cows  and  your  poultry  take  heed, 
Though  the  morning  is  chill, 
And  the  March  winds  blow  shrill, 

Come  cheerfully  forth  at  the  call ; 
There  is  life  on  the  wings 
Of  the  gale  as  it  sings 

In  the  pride  of  its  freedom  to  all, 

March  ! 


MARCH.  169 

Come  men,  with  your  axes  and  sinews  of  strength, 
The  trees  in  yon  fallow  must  measure  their  length 
On  the  ground  'neath  the  hill, 
Where  the  wind  whistles  shrill, 

Ere  the  shadows  of  evening  shall  fall ; 
Let  our  sturdy  strokes  ring 
A  glad  welcome  to  spring, 

Keeping  time  to  her  life-giving  call, 

March ! 

We'll  see  to  our  fences,  our  harrows  and  plows, 
We'll  give  extra  care  to  our  lambkins  and  cows; 
That  when  March  winds  are  still, 
And  o'er  valley  and  hill 

The  warm  sunlight  of  April  shall  fall, 
No  hindrance  they'll  bring 
To  the  labors  of  spring, 

While  I  forth  at  the  head  of  you  all, 

March ! 

We'll  march  in  the  furrows  so  deep  and  so  true, 
And  plant  the  bright  corn  where  the  dark  forest 

grew ; 

Our  rich  fallows  we'll  till, 
And  as  hopefully  still 

From  our  hands  shall  the  golden  grains  fall, 
Of  the  harvest  we'll  sing  — 
'  Tis  the  promise  of  Spring 

To  all  farmers  who  now  heed  her  call ; 

March ! 


170  MARCH. 

And  thus  through  all  seasons,  in  sunshine  and  rain, 
Till  March  shall   come  rdhnd  to  our  hearthstones 

again, 

With  a  steady  good  will, 
We  will  sow,  reap  and  till, 

And,  still  mindful  of  life's  coming  fall, 
We  can  joyfully  sing 
When  our  ripe  sheaves  we  bring 

At  the  sound  of  our  Maker's  last  call, 

March  ! 


A  SPRING  SONG. 


The  days  are  lengthening  on  the  earth, 

And  deepening  in  the  azure  heaven  ;  — 
How  thankfully  our  hearts  look  up 

To  Him  who  hath  the  Spring-time  given. 
Not  one  of  all  the  seasons  four, 

Though  rich  in  bloom,  and  bounteousness, 
Brings  to  our  life  such  tender  joy, 

So  sweet  a  crown  of  hope  as  this. 

We  take  the  Summer's  harvest  gifts, 

And  turn,  with  heat  and  toil  oppressed, 
To  lay  the  burdens  that  we  bear 

On  placid  Autumn's  matron  breast. 
Then,  shrinking  from  her  fading  charms, 

We  welcome  Winter's  icy  reign, 
Well  conscious  that  his  parting  breath 

Will  wake  the  sweet  young  Spring  again. 

Young,  with  that  pure,  immortal  life 

Born  at  the  threshold  of  the  tomb, 
And  sweet  with  all  its  prophet  buds 

Full  of  the  Summer's  ripened  bloom. 
O  God,  though  from  our  life  Thou  take 

The  dearest  treasures  time  can  bring, 
Blight  not  the  tender  joys  that  wake 

Perennial  with  each  blooming  Spring  ! 


HOEING  CORN. 


Out  in  the  earliest  light  of  morn 
Ralph  was  hoeing  the  springing  corn ; 
The  dew  fell  flashing  from  blades  of  green 
Wherever  his  glancing  hoe  was  seen, 
While  dark  and  mellow  the  hard  earth  grew 
Beneath  his  strokes  so  strong  and  time. 

And  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
As  the  sun  went  up  he  swung  his  hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe,  —  row  after  row  ; 
From  the  earliest  light  of  the  summer  morn, 
Till  the  noonday  sound  of  the  dinner  horn. 

What  Avas  Ralph  thinking  of  all  the  morn, 

Out  in  the  summer  heat  hoeing  corn, 

With  the  sweat  and  dust  on  his  hands  and  face, 

And  toiling  along  at  that  steady  pace  ? 

A  clear  light  beamed  in  his  eye  the  while, 

And  round  his  lips  was  a  happy  smile, 

As  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
While  the  sun  went  down  he  swung  his  hoe ; 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe  —  row  after  row, 
Faster  toward  nightfall  than  even  at  morn 
He  hastened  his  steps  through  the  springing  corn. 


HOEING    CORN.  173 

Across  the  road  from  this  field  of  corn 
Was  the  stately  home  where  Ralph  was  born ; 
Where  his  father  counted  his  stores  of  gold, 
And  his  lady  mother  so  proud  and  cold 
Lived  but  for  the  silks  and  gauze  and  lace 
That  shrouded  her  faded  form  and  face  ; 

While  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
Unthought  cff  went  Ralph,  and  swung  his  hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe  —  row  after  row, 
Day  after  day  through  the  springing  corn, 
Toward  the  humble  home  of  Isabel  Lorn. 

This  he  was  thinking  of  all  the  morn, 
And  all  day  long  as  he  hoed  the  corn,  — 
"  How  sweet  'twill  be  when  the  shadows  fall 
Over  that  little  brown  cottage  wall, 
To  sit  by  its  door  'neath  the  clustering  vine, 
With  Isabel's  dear  little  hand  in  mine  ! 

So  cheerily  still,  hill  after  hill, 
From  morning  till  night  I'll  swing  my  hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe  —  row  after  row, 
Knowing   each  step  through  the  springing  corn, 
Is  bringing  me  nearer  to  Isabel  Lorn  ! " 

V 

O  glad  was  he  then  when  the  growing  corn 
Shielded  his  steps  from  his  mother's  scorn: 
And  glad  that  his  father's  miser  hand 
Had  barred  all  help  from  his  fertile  land ; 
So  safely  he  kept  his  forest  flower, 
And  dreamed  of  her  beauty  hour  by  hour, 
As  steadily  still,  hill  after  hill, 


174  HOEING   CORN. 

Through  the  field  so  broad  he  swung  his  hoe, 

Hoe,  hoe,  hoe  —  row  after  row, 
Knowing  each  step  through  the  growing  corn 
Was  bringing  him  nearer  to  Isabel  Lorn. 

So  months  passed  on,  and  the  ripened  corn 
Was  laid  on  the  ground  one  autumn  morn, 
While  under  the  sod  in  the  churchyard  blest 
Are  two  low  graves  where  the  aged  rest. 
The  father  has  left  broad  lands  and  gold, 
And  the  mother  her  wealth  of  silks  untold ; 

And  sweet  Isabel  —  why  need  I  tell 
What  she  said  to  Ralph  when  without  his  hoe 

He  sought  her  side  ?    It  was  not  "  no  " 
That  made  her  the  mistress  one  summer  morn, 
Of  that  stately  home  by  the  field  of  corn. 


KING  AND  QUEEN. 


I  am  a  king  in  my  own  domain, 

And  my  little  wife  is  queen, 
And  jointly  over  our  realm  we  reign, 

A  royal  couple  I  ween. 

Beauty  and  grace  are  the  robes  that  flow 

From  her  lily  shoulders  down, 
The  gems  of  truth  on  her  bosom  glow, 

And  love  is  her  golden  crown. 

But  her  dainty  hands  are  brown  with  toil, 
Her  cheeks  with  the  breezes'  kiss, 

And  she  works  for  a  tiller  of  the  soil 
As  if  work  for  him  were  bliss. 

I  am  the  king  and  the  tiller  too, 

My  farm  is  my  proud  domain, 
And  the  will  to  dare  and  the  strength  to  do 

Are  the  sceptres  of  my  reign. 

8* 


176  KING    AND    QUEEN. 

At  my  touch  the  teeming  earth  yields  up 
Her  wealth  for  my  feast  and  store ; 

The  nectar  of  health  brims  high  my  cup, 
My  measure  of  bliss  runs  o'er. 

O  ne'er  was  a  happier  realm  I  ween 
Than  ours  'neath  the  arching  sky, 

And  never  a  happier  king  and  queen 
Than  mv  little  wife  and  I ! 


SIGNS   OF   SPRING. 

TO     MARY     IX     THE     COUNTRY. 

You  wonder  how  we  city  folks 

Can  know  that  it  is  Spring, 
With  no  green  grass  beneath  our  feet, 

No  wildwood  birds  to  sing  ! 
With  no  sweet  blossoms  springing  up 

To  brighten  all  the  way, 
You  wonder  how  we  ever  came 

To  know  that  it  was  May. 
You  say  the  fragrant  pastures  now, 

Where  golden  cowslips  grow, 
Are  filled  with  calves  and  little  lambs, 

That  run  and  gambol  so  ! 
And  o'er  the  furrows  black  and  long, 

Like  emeralds  clasped  in  jet, 
Each  holding  in  its  folded  heart 

A  sparkling  diamond  set, 
The  tender  corn  is  peeping  out, 

Unfolding  one  by  one 


178  SIGNS    OF    SPRING. 

The  dainty  leaves  that  soon  will  flaunt 

More  broadly  in  the  sun. 
You  say  that  o'er  the  waving  wheat, 

Through  all  the  breezy  day, 
Like  fairy  children  at  their  sport 

The  lights  and  shadows  play ; 
And  that  the  blooming  orchard  trees 

Their  branching  censers  swing, 
Perfuming  all  the  sunlit  air, 

And  thus  you  know  'tis  Spring  ! 
But  wonder  how  we  city  folks, 

Without  the  wild  bird's  tune, 
Or  lambs  and  orchards,  wheat  and  corn, 

Can  tell  when  it  is  June  ! 

Dear  Mary,  what  a  simple  girl  ! 

How  very  countrified  ! 
Your  ignorance  of  city  life 

Is  shocking  to  my  pride  ! 
You  seem  to  think  that  nothing  green 

Can  grow  and  flourish  here  ; 
Why,  greenness  is  the  very  thing 

For  which  we're  noted,  dear. 
Whichever  way  you  go,  across, 

Or  up,  or  down  the  street, 
You're  pretty  sure  some  specimens 

Of  that  bright  hue  to  meet. 
And  if  you  knew  our  business  ways, 

You'd  soon  begin  to  see 
The  greenest  of  your  grass  is  pale 

Beside  our  verdancy. 


SIGNS    OF    SPRING.  179 

Unlike  you  simple  country  folks, 

Who  in  your  plodding  way 
Will  "  trade  "  and  «  dicker,"  "  swap  "  and  "  sell," 

And  always  get  your  pay, 
Our  city  dealers  sell  "on  time," 

They  pile  the  profits  high, 
In  hopes  to  make  a  double  haul 

When  needed,  by  and  by. 
They're  green  enough  to  stretch  their  hands, 

Expectant,  for  the  gold, 
But  soon  discover  'tis  themselves, 

And  not  the  goods,  are  "  sold." 
And  editors  will  trust  their  friends 

Their  paper  bills  for  years, 
Though  warned  by  starving  publishers 

They  sow  to  reap  in  tears. 

0  never  in  your  greenest  woods 
Where  rankest  verdure  is, 

Could  verdant  hunters  come  across 

A  greener  thing  than  this ! 
And  when  their  duns  come  back  endorsed, 

"  Poor,"  «  Dead,"  or  «  Kan  away," 

1  do  not  think  your  silly  lambs 
More  sheepish  feel  than  they  ! 

No  ;  grceneys  are  not  wanting  here, 

And  through  our  city  roam 
Calves  quite  as  big  as  any  two 

Around  your  country  home. 

You  talk  of  growing  wheat  and  corn 
And  orchards  blooming  gay, — 


180  SIGNS    OF    SPRING. 

But  we  had  plainer  signs  than  these 

To  tell  us  it  was  May. 
Soon  as  the  snow  had  left  our  streets, 

And  dust  had  come  instead, 
Each  lady  took  a  little  sign 

And  tied  it  on  her  head. 
But  fearing  these  might  not  be  seen, 

Because  they  were  so  small, 
Each  had  upon  her  shoulders  hung 

A  rainbow-colored  shawl ; 
And  then  with  costly  'broideries 

O'er  hoops  of  monstrous  size, 
Or  balmorals  whose  dazzling  hues 

Might  almost  blind  your  eyes, 
O'erspread  with  skirts  of  trailing  length 

From  fashions  o'er  the  seas, 
They  launched  upon  the  avenue, 

And  sailed  before  the  breeze. 
By  skirt  and  shawl  and  top-knot  gay, 

And  ribbons  fluttering, 
Whene'er  AVC  looked  upon  the  street 

We  knew  that  it  was  Spring. 
There  roses  stalked  in  stately  pride 

With  flaunting  lily-belles, 
As  if  in  sportive  strife  to  see 

Who'd  make  the  biggest  swells ! 
And  dandy-lions,  neat  and  trim, 

Enlivened  all  the  scene, 
With  ornaments  of  yelloAV  hue 

Well  set  on  living  green  1 


SIGNS   OF    SPRING. 

So,  Mary,  by  these  signs  you  see, 

Though  from  your  woods  away, 
We  needed  not  your  grass  and  flowers 

To  tell  us  it  was  May. 
And  thus,  without  your  sunlit  dells, 

Or  wild  bird's  simple  tune, 
No  doubt  our  rose-and-lily-belles 

Will  tell  us  when  'tis  June. 


THE   SNOW. 


The  snow  is  coming,  the  beautiful  snow! 

How  fast  through  the  air  it  is  flying; 
Like  Charity's  mantle  it  covers  from  sight 
The  ruin  that  Autumn  had  made  in  his  might, 
When    he   ravished   the   blossoms   so    lovely    and 
bright. 

And  left  them  all  withered  and  dying. 
The  snow  covers  all,  the  beautiful  snow ; 
The  springtime  is  gone,  and  the  summer's  bright 

glow, 
And  no  longer  with  well-feigned  accents  of  woe 

The  hypocrite  Autumn  is  sighing. 

The  snow,  the  glittering  snow  has  come ! 

From  morn  till  night  the  bells  are  ringing  ; 
A  livelier  welcome  was  never  heard 
From  the  throat  of  a  gay  and  gladsome  bird, 
When  he  saw  by  a  leaf  the  wind  had  stirred, 

The  first  young  violet  springing. 
The  snow  bird  too  with  the  snow  has  come  — 
O  Willie,  throw  down  your  noisy  drum, 
And  bring  to  this  dear  little  warbler  a  crumb, 

For  which  he  will  pay  you  in  singing. 


THE    SNOW.  183 

O  rosy-checked  and  laughing  girls, 

For  your  delight  the  snow  comes  down ; 
It  melts  amid  your  shining  curls, 

Your  raven  braids  and  tresses  brown. 
Swift  through  the  air  the  rounded  ball 

By  roguish  boys  is  deftly  thrown ; 
No  matter  which  shall  break  its  fall, 

Your  head,  or  Fanny's,  or  my  own  ! 
Scarce  whiter  than  your  neck  it  fell, 

Like  snow  on  snow  bank  lightly  — 
Another  backward  flies — that's  well ! 

.No  other  hand  could  throw  so  sprightly! 
O  merrily  then,  fair  children,  sing, 
Not  for  the  languishing,  balmy  Spring, 
Not  for  the  Summer  or  Autumn  —  no, 
Sing  for  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snoAV ! 


THE   CLOSING  YEAR. 


The  year  is  dying  with  the  day, 
And  blending  with  the  twilight  gray 

The  shadows  come  and  go ; 
With  noiseless  step  across  the  floor, 
And  dusky  banners  waving  o'er, 

I  see  them  moving  slow. 

The  twilight  deepens  into  gloom, 
And  darkly  round  my  silent  room 

The  phantom  hopes  arise  — 
Such  haunting  shapes  as  once  had  form 
Of  life  and  beauty  glowing  warm, 

Beneath  more  smiling  skies. 

I  see  them  oft  at  hours  like  this, 
When  lingering  daylight  waits  to  kiss 

The  blushing  star  of  eve, 
Then  slowly  pales  his  love-lit  fires, 
And  down  the  crimson  sky  retires, 

As  loth  that  star  to  leave. 


THE    CLOSING    YEAR.  185 

And  oft  I  wake  to  hear  their  call 
When  midnight  drops  her  sombre  pall 

Adown  yon  arch  of  blue  ; 
And  I  those  shadowy  bands  among, 
Have  still  their  mournful  marches  sung 

Till  I  am  mournful  too. 

But  vain  to-night  shall  be  their  charms, 
Their  beckoning  hands  and  twining  arms : 

Come  hither  Adelaide  : 
Now  place  thy  fair  young  cheek  to  mine, 
And  let  thy  arms  around  me  twine, 

Nor  tremble  'mid  this  shade. 

Upon  thy  breast  no  weary  years 
In  sorrow  born,  baptised  in  tears, 

With  life's  sweet  hopes  have  died ; 
But  lovely  in  thy  youthful  morn, 
An  opening  rose  without  a  thorn, 

Thou  standest  by  my  side. 

Thy  trusting,  hopeful  smiles  dispel 
The  glooms  that  o'er  my  spirit  fell ; 

The  haunting  shadoAvs  flee, 
And  standing  by  thy  side  I  seem 
As  walking  in  a  blissful  dream, 

A  hopeful  child  like  th'ee. 

But  ah,  to-morrow's  light  will  bring 
Another  leaf  to  crown  thy  spring ; 


186  THE  CLOSING  YEAR 

For  me,  perchance  a  tear ; 
Yet  in  my  dream  methinks  I  see 
A  brighter  day  of  hope  for  me 

Is  dawning  with  the  year. 


A   SONG  FOR  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 


Away  with  thoughts  of  pall  and  bier, 
And  cypress  bough  and  funeral  tear, 
And  waitings /for  the  dying  year. 
Our  household  fires  shall  burn  to-night 
With  warmer  glow,  while  children  bright 
Dance  round  us  in  the  rosy  light. 

Life  was  not  given  for  tears  and  groans, 
The  god-like  gift  of  speech  for  moans, 
Or  faces  made  for  churchyard  stones. 
Hang  the  green  holly  on  your  walls, 
And  let  the  children's  laughing  calls 
Re-echo  through  the  lighted  halls. 

Those  who  have  killed  the  year  may  weep, 
And  low  in  dust  and  ashes  creep, 
With  wild  laments  and  anguish  deep ; 
But  we  who  loved  him  best  while  here, 
Can  bid  him  go  with  festal  cheer, 
And  lights  and  garlands  round  his  bier. 


188         A  SONG  FOR  NEW   YEAR'S  EVE. 

He  came  to  us  a  helpless  child, 
Amid  the  snows  of  winter  wild  — 
Our  hearths  with  blazing  logs  we  piled, 
"We  gave  him  shelter  from  the  storm, 
And  closely  wrapped  his  shivering  form, 
In  softest  wools  and  ermine  warm. 

"We  fed  him  from  our  garden  store  — 
The  richest  fruits  our  orchards  bore, 
•And  nuts  from  many  a  foreign  shore. 
Our  corn  and  wine  his  strength  supplied, 
Till,  grown  to  boyhood  by  our  side, 
"We  gloried  in  his  youthful  pride. 

We  gave  him  flocks  and  fertile  lands, 
"We  bowed  our  heads  to  his  commands, 
And  tilled  his  fields  with  willing  hands  ; 
When  lo,  to  crown  his  manhood's  morn, 
The  ripening  wheat,  and  tasseled  corn, 
Were  of  our  loving  labor  born. 

»      Through  all  the  summer's  noontide  heat, 
We  toiled  amid  the  clover  sweet, 
And  piled  its  fragrance  at  his  feet. 
We  reaped  his  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Then  plowed  o'er  all  the  vale  and  plain, 
And  sowed  the  hopeful  seed  again, 

And  when  the  autumn's  withered  leaves 
Fell  rustling  round  our  household  eaves, 
We  gathered  in  his  golden  sheaves, 


A  SONG  FOR  NEW   YEAR'S   EVE.         189 

We  bound  his  farrowed  brow  with  maize, 
And  honored  his  declining  days 
With  jubilees  of  grateful  praise. 

His  work  is  done  ;  his  Harvest-home 
Is  gathered  where  no  blight  can  come, 
And  his  sealed  lips  are  sweetly  dumb 
From  the  full  perfectness  of  bliss, 
The  rapture  trance  that  ever  is 
Just  where  the  Heavenly  life  meets  this. 

We  want  for  him  no  death  bells  slow, 
No  sable  plumes  and  hearse  of  woe, 
With  mourners  wailing  as  they  go. 
But  bring,  in  place  of  tolling  knells, 
The  music  of  your  merry  bells, 

And  cheerful  songs  for  sad  farewells. 
/ 

Hang  the  green  holly  on  the  wails, 
Let  social  mirth  and  music  calls 
King  through  your  festal  lighted  halls. 
Life  from  the  Old  Year's  death  is  born, 
Let  bright'ning  hopes  with  smiles  adorn 
The  breaking  of  the  New  Year's  Morn ! 


190    ERINNA  CHAINED  TO  THE  DISTAFF. 


Lily  of  the  Lesbian  Isle, 

Twin  in  heart  with  Lesbos'  Rose, 

O'er  thy  life's  too  fleeting  smile, 
O'er  thy  early  ended  woes, 
Fond  Romance  a  glory  throws. 

Pallid  as  thine  emblem  flower, 
In  thy  humble  garb  arrayed, 

At  the  distaff  hour  by  hour, 

Through  all  change  of  sun  and  shade, 
Sitt'st  and  sing'st  thou,  Lesbian  maid. 

Weary  grow  the  fingers  slight, 
Still  the  wheel  with  ceaseless  turn 

Weds  the  morning  to  the  night, 
Heedless  as  thy  parent  stern 
Of  the  thoughts  that  in  thee  bum. 

Endless  through  the  hands  so  small 
Glides  the  thread  for  Lesbos'  looms ; 

Spinning  thus  thy  young  life's  pall, 
O'er  thy  spirit  fall  no  glooms 
And  thy  soul  in  beauty  blooms. 


ERINNA   CHAINED   TO   THE   DISTAFF.       191 

Patient  at  the  distaff  bent 

To  thine  ear  a  murmur  comes, 

Message  sweet  by  nature  sent  — 
By  each  bird  and  bee  that  hums 
Through  her  forests  dropping  gums ; 

By  each  wandering  wind  that  blows 
O'er  the  loved  JEgean  waves ; 

By  each  mountain  stream  that  flows 
From  the  naiad  haunted  caves 
"Where  the  lonely  cistus  waves, 

Down  the  green  hills,  orange  crowned, 
O'er  the  sunbright  slopes  that  lie 

Garlanded  by  vines  around 
Where  the  purple  clusters  vie 
With  the  purple  Lesbian  sky. 

Soft  the  tender  floods  of  song 

Borne  by  winds  and  waves  and  sti'eams  — 

Lethe  for  the  spirit's  wrong  — 

Four  their  splendors  through  thy  dreams 
Till  an  eden  round  thee  beams. 

There  impassioned,  bold  and  strong, 
Sappho  o'er  her  golden  lyre, 

Rose  of  beauty,  love  and  song, 
Blushing  breathes  the  fond  desire 
That  consumes  her  heart  of  fire. 

Thou,  Erinna,  listening  all, 

Thrilling,  trembling  in  the  glow 
Of  the  love-born  airs  that  fall 


192      ERINNA   CHAINED   TO  THE   DISTAFF 

On  the  winds  that  come  and  go 
Through  thy  casement  dark  and  low, 

Thou,  the  Lesbian  Lily  fair,    v 
O'er  thy  distaff  drooping  cold, 

Type  of  genius  bound  by  care, 
Speakest  through  the  legend  old 
To  these  years  of  sterner  mould. 

Music-sweet  the  murmurs  come 
Where  thy  toihvorn  sisters  kneel, 

Wearied  with  the  ceaseless  hum 
Of  life's  ever  turning  wheel, 
Wounded  by  the  distaff's  steel. 

Toiling  hands  that  may  not  rest, 
Hearts  the  world  may  ne'er  beguile, 

Lips  that  love  hath  never  pressed, 
Bless  thy  hopeful  song  and  smile 
Lily  of  the  Lesbian  Isle  ! 


A     LIST    OF 

BOOKS 

ISSUED    BY 

CARLETON,    PUBLISHER, 

(LATE  EUDD   <fe  CARLETON,) 

413    Broadway, 
NEW      YORK. 


NEW      BOOKS 

And    New   Editions    Recently    Issued    by 

CARLETON,  PUBLISHER, 

(LATE  EUDD  &  CARLETON.) 
413    BROADWAY,    NEW     YORK. 


N.B. — THE  PUBLISHER,  npon  receipt  of  the  price  in  advance,  will  send  any 
of  the  following  Books,  by  mail,  POSTAGE  FREE,  to'any  part  of  thp  United  States. 
This  convenient  and  very  safe  mode  may  be  adopted  when  the  neighboring  Book 
sellers  are  not  supplied  with  the  desired  work.  State  name  and  address  in  full. 


The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth. 

A  magnificent  new  historical  novel,  by  Charles  Reade,  author 
of  "  Peg  Woffington,"  "Christie  Johnstone,"  etc.,  etc.,  $1.25. 

A  Book  about  Doctors. 

An  amusing,  entertaining,  and  gossipy  volume  about  the  medi 
cal  profession — with  many  anecdotes.    From  English  ed.,  $1.50. 

Rntledirc. 
A  powerful  new  American  novel,  by  an  unknown  author,  $  j  .25. 

The  Sutherland*. 

The  new  novel  by  the  popular  author  of  "  Rutledge,"  $1.25, 

The  Habits  of  Good  Society. 

A  hand-book  for  ladies  and  gentlemen.    Best,  wittiest,  most  en 
tertaining  work  on  taste  and  good  manners  ever  printed,  $1.25. 
The  Great  Tribulation. 

Or,  Things  coming  on  the  earth,  by  Rev.  John  Cumming,  D.D., 
author  "  Apocalyptic  Sketches,"  etc.,  two  series,  each     fsi.oo. 

The  Great  Preparation. 

Or,  Redemption  draweth  nigh,  by  Rev.  John  Cumming,  D.D., 
author  "The  Great  Tribulation,"  etc.,  two  series,  each  $i.co. 

Teach  us  to  Pray. 

A  new  devotional  work  on  The  Lord's  Prayer,  by  Rev.  John 
Cumming,  D.D.,  author  "The  Great  Tribulation,"  etc.,  <jpi.oo. 


LIST  OF  SO  OSS  PUBLISHED 


Love  (L'Amour). 

A  remarkable  and  celebrated  volume  on  Love,  translated  from 
the  French  of  M.  J.  Michelet,  by  Dr.  J.  W.  Palmer,     §1.00. 

Woman  (La  Femme). 
A  continuation  of  "  Love  (L'Amour),"  by  same  author,  $1.00. 

The  Sea  (La  Itter). 
New  work  by  Michelet,  author  "  Love"  and  "  Woman,"  §  i  .cc. 

The  floral  History  of  Women. 
Companion  to  Michelet's  "  L'Amour,"  from  the  French,  81.00. 

Mother  Goose  for  Grown  Folks. 

A  brochure  of  humorous  and  satirical  rhymes  for  old  folks,  based 
upon  the  famous  "  Mother  Goose  Melodies,"  illustrated,  75  cts. 

The  Adventures  of  Verdant  Green. 

A  rollicking  humorous  novel  of  English  College  life  and  expe 
riences  at  Oxford  University,  with  nearly  200  illus.,       61.00. 

The  Old  Merchants  of  New  York. 

Being  entertaining  reminiscences  and   recollections   of  ancient 
mercantile  New  York  City,  by  "  Walter  Barrett,  clerk,"  $1.50. 

The  Culprit  Fay. 
Joseph  Rodman  Drake's  faery  poem,  elegantly  printed,      50  cts. 

Doctor  Antonio. 

One  of  the  very  best  love-tales  of  Italian  life  ever  published, 
by  G.  Ruffini,  author  of  "Lorenzo  Benoni,"  etc.,  etc.,  81.25. 

Lavinia. 
A  new  love-story,  by  the  author  of  "  Doctor  Antonio,"  $1.25. 

Dear  Experience. 
An  amusing  Parisian  novel,  by  author  "  Doctor  Antonio,"  $  i  .00. 

The  Life  of  Alexander  Von  Humboldt. 
A   new  and  popular  biography  of  this  savant,  including  his 
travels  and  labors,  with  an  introduction  by  Bayard  Taylor,  §1.25. 

The  Private  Correspondence  of  Von  Hnmboldt 
With  Varnhagen  Von  Ense  and  other  European  celebrities,§  1.25. 

Artemns  Ward. 
The  best  writings  of  this  humorous  author — illustrations,  $1.00. 

Beatrice  Cenci. 
An  historical  novel  by  F.  D.  Guerrazzi,  from  the  Italian,  $1.25. 

Isabella   Orsini. 
An  historical  novel  by  the  author  of  "Beatrice  Cenci,"  $1.2^. 

The  Spirit  of  Hebrew  Poetry. 

A  new  theological  work  by  Isaac  Taylor,  author  "  History  ot 
Enthusiasm,"  etc. — introduction  by  Wm.  Adams  D.D.,  §2.00. 


BY  OABLXYOy.  NEW  YOlcK. 


Cesar  Birottcau. 

The  first  of  a.  series  of  selections  from  the  best  French  novels  of 
Honore  de  Balzac.  Translated  from  the  latest  Paris  editions  by 
O.  W.  Wight  and  Frank  B.  Goodrich  ("  Dick  Tinto"),  81.00. 

Petty  Annoyances  of  .Harried  Life. 
The  second  of  the  series  of  Balzac's  best  French  novels,  81.00. 

Tlie  Alchemist. 
The  third  of  the  series  of  Balzac's  best  French  novels,  §1.00. 

Eugenic  Graiidct. 
The  fourth  of  the  series  of  Balzac's  best  French  novels,  81.00. 

The  National  School  for  the  Soldier. 

An  elementary  work  for  the  soldier  ;  teaching  by  questions  and 
answers,  thorough  military  tactics,  by  Capt.  Van  Ness,  50  cts. 

The  Partisan  Leader. 

The  notorious  Disunion  novel,  published  at  the  South  many 
years  ago — then  suppressed — now  reprinted,  2  vols.  in  i,  81.00. 

A  Woman's  thoughts  about  Women. 

A  new  and  one  of  her  best  works,  by  Miss  Mulock,  author  of 
"John  Halifax,  Gentleman,"  "A  Life  for  a  Life,"  etc.,  $1.00. 

Ballad  of  Babie  Bell. 
Together  with  other  poems  by  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  75  cts. 

The  Course  of  True  Love 
Never  did  run  smooth,  a  poem  by  Thomas  B.  Aldrich,  50  cts. 

Poems  of  a  Year. 
By  Thomas  B.  Aldrich,  author  of  "  Babie  Bell,"  &c.,     75  cts. 

Curiosities  of  Natural  History. 

An  entertaining  and  gossiping  volume  on  beasts,  birds,  and 
fishes,  by  F.  T.  Buckland  ;  two  series,  ea.  sold  separately,  81.25. 

The  Diamond  Wedding. 
And  other  miscellaneous  poems,  by  Edmund C.  Stedman,  75  cts. 

The   Prince's  Ball. 
A  satirical  poem  by  E.  C.  Stedman,  with  illustrations,    50  cts. 

A  Life  of  Hugh  Miller. 
Author  of  "  Testimony  of  the  Rocks,"  &c.,  new  edition,  81.25. 

Eric;  or,  Little  by  Little. 
A  capital  tale  of  English  school-life,  by  F.  W.  Farrar,   81.00. 

Lola  Montcz. 
Her  lectures  and  auto"Diography,  steel  portrait,  new  ed.,  81.25 

Spots  on  the  Sun. 
Or;  The  Plumb-Line.-  papers,  by  Rev.  T.  M.  Hopkins,  81.00 


6  LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 

Tom  Tiddler's  Ground. 

Charles  Dickens's  Christmas  Story  for  1861,  paper  cover,  25  cts, 

National  Hymns. 

An  essay  by  Richard  Grant  White.      8vo.  embellished,  $1.00. 

George  Brimley. 

Literary  essays  reprinted  from  the  British  Quarterlies,      $1.25. 

The  Kelly's  and  tlio  O'Kclly's. 

Novel  by  Anthony  Trollope,  author  of  "  Doctor  Thorne,"  $1.25. 

General    Nathaniel   I>yon. 
The  life  and  political  writings  of  this  patriot  soldier,        $1.00. 

Twenty  Years  Around  the  'World. 
A  volume  of  travel  by  John  G.  Vassar,  Poughkeepsie,     $2.50. 

Philip  Tliaxter. 
A  new  American  novel,  one  vol.  I2mo.,  cloth  bound,      $1.00. 

Nothing  to  Wear. 
A  satirical  poem  by  Wm.  A.  Butler,  with  illustrations,    50  cts. 

Political  History  of  New  York. 

By  Jabez  B.  Hammond,  LL.D.,  3  vols.  steel  portraits,     86.00. 

Vernon  Grove. 
A  novel  by  Mrs.  Caroline  H.  Glover,  Charleston,  S.  C.,  81.00. 

The  Book  of  Chess  Literature. 
A  complete  Encyclopaedia  of  this  subject,  by  D.  W.  Fiske,  81.^. 

From  Hayttme  to  Hopping. 
A  novel  by  the  author  of"  Our  Farm  of  Four  Acres,"  $1.00. 

miles  Standish,  Illustrated. 
Longfellow's  poem  with  illustrations  by  J.  W.  Ehninger,  $6.00. 

The  Afternoon  of  Unmarried  Life. 
An  interesting  theme  admirably  treated,  new  edition,      $1.25. 

Fast  Day  Sermons 
Of  1 86 1,  the  best  Sermons  by  the  prominent  Divines,    $1.25. 

A  Guide  to  Washington. 
A  complete  hand-book  for  the  National  Capitol,  illus.,    81.00. 

Doesticks'  Letters. 
The  original  letters  of  this  great  humorist,  illustrated,      $1.25. 

Plu-ri-bns-tah. 
A  comic  history  of  America,  by  "Doesticks,"  illus.,        81.25. 

The  Elephant  Club. 
A  humorous  view  of  club-life,  by  "Doesticks,"  illus.,      81.25. 

The  Witches  of  New  York. 
Comic  adventures  among  fortune  tellers,  by  "  Doesticks,"    $1.25. 


SY  CARLETOy,  NEW  YORK. 


Fort    Lafayette. 

A  novel  by  the  Hon.  Benjamin  Wood  of  New  York,     $1.00. 
The  Mexican  Papers. 

in  five  separate  parts;  by  Edward  E.  Dunbar,  per  set,  $1.00. 

Debt  and  Grace. 

The  Doctrine  of  a  Future  Lite  by  Rev.  C.  F.  Hudson,  §1.25. 
Thcssalonica. 

Or;  the  model  church,  by  H.  L.  Hastings,  izmo.,  .       75  cts. 

Poems  by  E.  G.  Holland. 

Niagara,  and  other  poems;  in  blue  and  gold  binding,      75  cts. 

Wild  Southern  Scenes. 

A  tale,  by  the  author  of  "Wild  Western  Scenes,"          $1.25. 
Sybellc 

And  other  poems  by  L ,  blus  and  gold  binding,       75  cts. 

The  Spuytendnyvil  Chronicle. 

A  novel  of  fashionable  life  and  society  in  New  York,     75  cts. 

Ballads  of  the  War. 

A  collection  of  poems  for  1861,  by  George  W.  Hewes,  75  cts. 

Hartley  >'orman. 

A  new  and  striking  American  novel;  one  large  I2mo.,  $1.25. 

The   Vagabond. 

Sketches  on  literature,  art,  and  society,  by  Adam  Badeau,  $l.oo. 

Eiuoline  Sherman  Smith. 

A  collection  of  selected  poems,  large  octavo,  elegant,      $2.00. 

Edgar  Poe  and  his  Critics. 

A  literary  critique  by  Mrs.  Sarah  Helen  Whitman,         75  cts. 

The  New  and  the  Old. 

Sketches  in  California  and  India,  by  Dr.  J.  W.  Palmer,  $1.25. 

Up  and  Down  the  Irrawaddi. 
Adventures  in  the  Burman  Empire,  by  J.  W.  Palmer,      $1.00. 

Sarah  Gould. 
A  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems,  in  blue  and  gold,       75  cts. 

Cosmogony  ; 
Or,  the  mysteries  of  creation,  by  Thomas  A.  Davies,     $1.50. 

An  Answer  to  Hugh  Miller 
And  other  kindred  geologists,  by  Thomas  A.  Davies,      $1.25. 

Walter  Ash  wood. 
A  novel  by  "  Palu  Siogvolk,"  author  of  "  Schediasms,"  $1.00 

Southwold. 
A  new  society  novel  by  Mrs.  Lillie  Devereux  Umsted,   $1.00 


LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 


Brown's  Carpenter's  Assistant. 

A  practical  work  on  architecture,  with  plans,  large  410.,  S^.oo. 

Two  Ways  to  Wedlock. 

A  novelette  reprinted  from  the  N.  Y.  Home  Journal,      $1.00 

A  Tribute  to  Kane, 

And  other  poems,  by  Geo.  W.  Chapman,  Milwaukee,  75  cts. 
Ethel's  Love  Life. 

A  love-story  by  Mrs.  Margaret  J.  M.  Sweat,  Portland,  $1.00. 

Recollections  of  the  Revolution. 

A  private  journal  and  diary  of  1776,  by  Sidney  Barclay,  $1.00. 
Poems  by  Flash. 

A  collection  of  poems  by  Henry  L.  Flash,  Mobile,         75  cts. 

Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man. 

A  capital  novel  from  the  French  of  Octave  Feuillet,        $1.00. 

A  New  Monetary  System. 

Or;   rights  of  labor  and  property,  by  Edward  Kellogg,  $l.oo. 

AVa-Wa-Waiida. 
A  legend  of  old  Orange  County,  New  York,  in  verse,  75  cts. 

Flirtation 
And  what  comes  of  it.     A  play,  by  Frank  B.  Goodrich,  25  cts. 

Blanche. 
A  legend  in  verse,  by  Sarah  W.  Brooks,  Providence,       50  cts. 

Husband  vs.  Wife. 

A  satirical  poem,  by  Henry  Clapp,  Jr.,  illus.  by  Hoppin,  60  cts. 
Ronmania. 

Travels  in  Eastern  Europe  by  J.  O.  Noyes,  illustrated,  $1.50. 

The  Christmas  Tree. 

A  volume  of  miscellany  for  the  young,  with  illustrations,  75  cts. 

The  Captive  Nightingale. 
\  charming  little  book  for  children,  many  illustrations,    75  cts. 

Sunshine  through   the  Clouds. 
Comprising  stories  for  juveniles,  beautifully  illustrated,  75  cts. 

Abraham  Lincoln. 
A  popular  life  of  Lincoln  and  Hamlin,  pamphlet,          25  cts. 

John  C.  Fremont. 
A  popular  life  of  Fremont  and  Dayton,  pamphlet,         25  cts. 

James   Buchanan. 
A  popular  life  of  Buchanan  and  Breckenridge,  pamphlet,  25  cts. 

John  Bell. 
A  popular  life  of  Bell  and  Everett,  pamphlet  covers,      25  cts. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


Adams  - 


1006   Sybelle, 
A  113s 


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